Page 59 of Neap & Spring

I ignore it. I’m elbow-deep in dish water, and whatever it is can wait.

It buzzes again immediately. And then a third time in rapid succession.

“You gonna get that?” Callum asks from across the kitchen. He’s back at the window, but I can tell he’s still aware of me. Still paying close attention to me being in his area.

“It’s probably just —” I pull my phone out with wet, soapy hands, and water drips onto the screen.

NEAP & SPRING INVESTORS

The name flashes at me like a warning light, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.

“Actually,” I hear myself say, and my voice sounds wrong. It’s too high pitched. “I need to take this.”

“Vivienne? What’s —” Callum’s voice follows me, full of concern, but I’m already moving toward the back door, phone pressed to my ear with a wet hand, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

“Hello?” I push through the door into the alley behind the restaurant. The cool air hits my face.

“Vivienne! Brad Henderson here.”

Brad. The lead investor. The one who hired me. The one I send weekly email updates to but haven’t actually spoken to since I started.

“We’ve got Jim Kozlowski and Cameron Chen here with me,” Brad continues, his voice aggressively cheerful in that way finance guys are. All teeth and confidence and underlying threat.

Three of them. All three of the main investors.

“Hi, Brad. Good to hear from you.” I pace the length of the alley, my free hand coming up to push stray hairs away from my face. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, here’s the thing. We’re actually in the area right now. Up in Crescent Bay for another portfolio visit, and Jim suggested why not swing by Neap & Spring? Kill two birds with one stone. See the progress firsthand, chat with you and Chef Reid about the plan.”

The world tilts slightly to the left.

“You’re … in the area?” I repeat stupidly.

“About forty-five minutes out. We were thinking we could meet around four thirty? Before your dinner rush hits. Get a sense of the operation. Hear what you’ve been working on. Sound good?”

I look at my watch with the hand not holding the phone.

2:47 p.m.

Less than two hours.

They want to be here in less than two hours, and I —

I don’t have a plan.

I mean, I have notes. Pages and pages of notes saved on my laptop. Observations about the restaurant, ideas about marketing strategies, thoughts about menu optimization. But an actual, concrete, presentable plan? The kind of thing you show investors who are paying you thousands of dollars to save their investment?

No.

“That sounds great,” I chime back, because what else can I possibly say? “We’ll be ready.”

“Perfect. Looking forward to it, Vivienne. This is exciting stuff.” Brad’s voice is encouraging. Completely unaware that he’s just detonated a bomb in this seaside restaurant. “See you soon.”

The line goes dead.

I stand there in the alley, phone still pressed to my ear even though there’s just silence now, and try to remember how to breathe.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.