Page 60 of Neap & Spring

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

The investors. Here. In less than two hours.

And I don’t have a plan.

“Shit,” I breathe into the empty alley.

A seagull screams from somewhere above me, like it’s agreeing.

I shove my phone back into my pocket. It’s still wet from my hands, and I’ve probably just destroyed it, but I have bigger fish to fry right now.

I push back through the door into the kitchen. The door swings open hard — harder than I intended — and hits something solid with a thud.

“Ow — shit!”

Callum stumbles back a step.

“Oh my God!” I’m through the door immediately, reaching for him without thinking. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were — are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” But he’s rubbing his shoulder, wincing slightly.

“I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t looking —”

“Vivienne.” His hand catches mine, stopping my frantic hovering. “I’m fine. I shouldn’t have been standing right there.”

We’re close. Too close. I can see the concern in his eyes even though he’s the one who just got hit with a door.

“Were you —” I look at the door, then back at him. “Were you waiting by the door?”

His ears go pink. “You sounded … I wanted to make sure —” He runs his hand through his hair. “Everything okay?”

Behind him, I can see Roman watching us with barely concealed interest. Cora has paused mid-pipe. Even Danny has stopped chopping.

Callum meets my eyes, and whatever he sees there makes his whole body go still.

“We need to talk.” My voice is just above a whisper, trying not to draw attention to us.

Callum’s face goes deathly serious.

“Now?” he whispers back, matching my need for this to be just between us.

“Right now.”

He studies my face. I watch him process the way my hands are shaking slightly, the way I’m standing too rigid, the probably panicked look in my eyes that has nothing to do with hitting him with a door.

Then he nods once and turns to face the kitchen, raising his voice. “Roman, you’re in charge. Cora, help Danny finish his prep. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

“Heard, Chef,” Roman replies, but I don’t miss the concerned look he shoots me over his station.

Callum gestures toward the small office at the back of the kitchen. “After you.”

I walk past him, weaving between the stainless-steel stations, acutely aware of him following close behind, my mind already spiraling.

Two hours. We have two hours to come up with something that sounds like a plan. Something that will convince three finance investors in expensive suits that their investment isn’t circling the drain. Something that will buy us more time.

This is fine.

This is totally fine.