Page 23 of Neap & Spring

“Chef,” she hisses at him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

He stops. “Now?”

“Yeah. Just — two seconds.”

I can see the war in his expression, but he nods. “Fine. Vivienne, give us a minute.”

I step back, pressing myself against the wall near the walk-in, pretending to look at something on my iPad. But I’m watching them out of the corner of my eye.

They move to the far corner of the kitchen. Cora says something I can’t hear, but Callum’s response is defensive, his shoulders go up and his hands gesture sharply. She puts a hand on his arm, says something else, and his shoulders drop slightly. Not much, but enough that I can tell whatever she said got through.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted, and says something back that makes Cora’s expression soften. She squeezes his arm.

Then she glances over at me, and our eyes meet for just a second before she looks away.

They’re talking about me.

Obviously they’re talking about me.

I focus on my iPad, scrolling through nothing, just needing something to do with my hands. Roman is watching me from across the kitchen, and when I accidentally make eye contact, he gives me a sympathetic smile and a little shrug that says What can you do?

Callum nods at whatever Cora says, and they both head back toward me. His face is carefully neutral again, but some of the harsh edge is gone. He’s still cold, but not quite as cutting.

“Dining room,” he pushes through the door without another look in my direction.

Roman catches my eye as I pass and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “He’s always like this.”

Except I know that’s not true.

Callum isn’t always like this. He’s never been like this.

He’s like this because of me.

I follow Callum, my chest tight and my hands shaking slightly where I’m clutching the iPad like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground. The cool air of the dining room is a relief after the kitchen heat, and I take a deeper breath than I have in the last thirty minutes.

The kitchen was all heat and noise. Out here, it’s quiet and calm. The early-afternoon light is streaming through those massive windows making the whole space glow.

Frannie is at the hostess stand doing something on a tablet. She looks up when we walk through, and her face lights up.

“How’d it go?” she asks brightly, looking between Callum and me like she’s trying to read the situation.

“Fine,” Callum says, which is possibly the least convincing lie I’ve ever heard.

Frannie’s eyes narrow slightly, but she keeps smiling. “Well, Vivienne, welcome to the front of house. We met earlier, but officially: hostess, occasional server, social media manager even though someone” — she shoots a pointed look at Callum — “doesn’t believe in Instagram.”

“Instagram is a waste of time,” Callum mutters.

“Instagram is free marketing,” Frannie counters. “But we’ve had this argument seventeen times, so I’ll spare Vivienne the replay.” She turns to me. “We have two other servers on staff. Becca and Morgan are coming in later for the dinner shift, but — oh, wait. There they are.”

I follow her gaze to see two women coming through the front door, both in their mid-twenties, laughing loudly as they enter the restaurant. One is brunette, tall and pretty. The other has blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Morgan wanted to pick up her check,” the brunette says. She’s got the kind of easy confidence that comes from working in hospitality. “And I wanted to — ” She stops, her eyes landing on me for half a second, and something in her expression recalibrates, a quick scan, before her gaze slides directly to Callum and her whole demeanor shifts. She smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Oh. Hey, Chef.”

“Becca,” Callum says, nodding. His voice is less cold than it’s been with me, and my heart gives a traitorous twist at that.

The other woman, Morgan, I assume, notices me and raises her eyebrows. “Who’s this?”

“Vivienne Lane,” Callum says. “The consultant the investors hired. Vivienne, this is Becca and Morgan.”