Page 67 of Neap & Spring

Callum’s leg tenses under my hand. I press down slightly, squeezing his upper thigh, and he makes a sound low in his throat that he covers with a cough before reaching for his water glass.

“Actually, it reduces waste.” His voice comes out steady, thank goodness. “More frequent rotation means I can work with smaller quantities of seasonal ingredients. Use what’s at peak freshness and minimize spoilage.”

“And from a marketing perspective,” I add, “it gives food writers and critics a reason to return. To write about the restaurant more than once. Every new dish is a potential story. And a reason for customers to come back.”

Brad is nodding now, finally eating his bread. “Smart. I like it. Keeps the experience fresh.”

“Exactly.” My hand is still on Callum’s leg. I click to the next slide, forcing my attention back to the screen and away from the warmth bleeding through the fabric of his chef pants. “And speaking of experiences, we are planning a signature event. A collaborative dinner with a guest chef. Right now, the idea is five courses with premium pricing and limited seating.”

“When?” Jim asks, his interest piqued.

“Two months out. That gives us time to plan properly, market it correctly, and build anticipation.” I pull up the projected numbers. “At $150 per person, fifty seats, we’re looking at $7,500 gross revenue for a single night. And the press coverage alone could be worth ten times that in future business.”

“Who’s the guest chef?” Brad tosses out.

I feel Callum look at me. His leg shifts under my hand, and I spread my fingers against his thigh, keeping him still. I could probably move my hand by now. The professional justification for it is long gone.

But I don’t move it.

“We’re in talks with several candidates,” I say smoothly. “All with established reputations and social media followings that will bring attention to Neap & Spring.”

It’s not technically a lie. I haven’t made calls yet, but I can.

I will.

I have to.

Cameron looks up from his iPad. “This all sounds great. Really solid initiatives. But what about the elephant in the room?”

The table goes quiet.

Callum’s entire body goes rigid under my hand. I slide my palm an inch higher up — probably farther than I should — and he makes a sound low in his throat that he just barely swallows in time. My thumb presses slow circles into the muscle there. Breathe, I think. Stay calm.

“The debt,” Jim says bluntly. “The loan payments are eating fifty percent of gross revenue. These initiatives will help, sure, but they’re not going to solve the fundamental problem.”

My mouth goes dry. Under the table, Callum’s hand finds mine and presses down, holding it there. I’m not sure which one of us started needing it more

Callum’s other hand is clutching his water glass on the table above, and I can see his knuckles going white.

“You’re right,” I say, because there’s no point in lying. “The debt is significant. It’s going to take years to pay off, not months.”

“So what’s the plan?” Brad clips. “Because our partnership agreement has a clause about sustained profitability. If the restaurant can’t demonstrate a path to paying down this debt —”

Callum starts to speak, but his voice comes out too tight. I press harder circles into the muscle beneath my palm, trying to steady him, and then my fingers graze somewhere they absolutely should not, and I make a sound I have to disguise as a sneeze while Callum’s hand clamps down hard over mine, holding it completely still.

“The plan is exactly what we’re presenting,” I recover first, giving Callum a second to collect himself. “Immediate action on high-impact, low-cost initiatives. Building revenue month over month. Creating buzz and visibility that attracts more customers. Repeat customers.” I click to a projected timeline. “Will it pay off the debt in six months? No. But it will stabilize the business. It will show consistent growth. And it will buy us the time we need to implement longer-term strategies.”

“What kind of timeline are we talking?” Jim probes.

I look at Callum. He needs to answer this one. This is his restaurant. His debt. His life.

He takes a breath, and I feel it in the rise and fall of his thigh under my palm. And something else warm and unmistakable, pressed close enough to my hand that my mind abandons the meeting entirely and lands somewhere it has absolutely no business going. Graduation night. The way he’d said Good girl low against my ear like it was just for me, like he’d known exactly what it would do. I have to curl my fingers into his thigh and fix my eyes on my laptop screen and remind myself that there are three men in suits sitting across this table who are deciding the fate of this restaurant.

“Three to four years.” His voice comes out steady in a way mine definitely wouldn’t right now. “To pay off the debt completely.”

He turns to look at me, and one eyebrow lifts just slightly as his tongue drags slowly across his lower lip, his mustache shifting with the ghost of a smile. Like he knows exactly where my mind went.

“That’s a long time,” Brad interrupts.