Page 40 of Neap & Spring

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is literally my business.” I take a step closer without meaning to, my feet moving before my brain catches up. “I can’t help you if I don’t understand what I’m working with.”

“You’re working with a failing restaurant. That’s all you need to know.” He shifts his weight, his hand coming up to grip the doorframe. I think he’s going to turn away, go back to his office and shut me out again.

But I can’t let him. I need to know.

“But it’s not failing,” I press, moving around the island so there’s less space between us. “Not operationally. Something else happened. Something that has nothing to do with the food or the service or —”

“Stop.”

The word cuts through the air like a knife.

And I freeze mid-step.

Callum takes a step toward me. Then another. Closing the distance until we’re close enough to touch. And I can see on his face it’s not anger covering his features. It’s not the cold fury I’ve been facing.

It’s exhaustion. Soul-crushing exhaustion. He looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, then release, then curl again.

“You want to know where the debt came from? Fine. I’ll tell you.”

CHAPTER NINE

Vivienne

Callum doesn’t move. He just stands there, looking at me like he’s trying to decide if he actually means it.

Then he turns and walks to the coffee station.

I watch him, frozen in place, as he pulls down two mugs from the shelf. His hands move with the same precision he uses for everything in this kitchen. He fills the coffee maker with water from the pitcher, measures out the grounds with a metal scoop, then levels it off with his finger.

He’s making coffee.

We’re about to have the conversation we should have had weeks ago, and he’s making coffee.

My hands are shaking. I clasp them together, pressing my palms tight, and try to steady myself. The kitchen feels different at night. It’s quieter and more intimate. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the stainless steel. I can hear the hum of the walk-in refrigerator, the distant sound of the ocean through the walls, and my own breathing.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, and Callum leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, staring at nothing. He rubs his hand over his face, palm dragging down, pulling at his features. The dark circles under his eyes look even worse under the harsh kitchen lights.

He’s still in his chef’s whites, stained from service. There’s oil splatter on the sleeve. And a smear of brown butter sauce on his hip. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and I can see the edge of a tattoo I don’t recognize.

How much has changed in five years? How much have I missed?

The coffee maker hisses and drips, and the rich smell fills the kitchen.

“Sit,” he says finally, not looking at me.

I glance around. There are two chairs tucked against the wall near his office, mismatched and worn. I pull them out, the metal legs scraping against the floor, and set them facing each other. Close enough to talk but not so close that we’re touching. I sit down, and my hands find my knees and grip them.

Callum pours the coffee when it’s ready, tilting the pot carefully so it doesn’t drip. He reaches into the small fridge under the counter, pulls out a carton of oat milk, and adds a splash to one mug. Then another. Then a third.

He hands it to me without saying a word.

I take it, my fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic, and stare down at the mug in shock at the coffee that’s the exact shade of brown I like. More milk than coffee, really, which he used to tease me about. He called it “barely coffee” and “a waste of good beans.”

But he remembered.