Page 9 of Neap & Spring

“And you know this might actually work?”

“I know that too.”

“So maybe —”

“I’ll deal with it when they get here,” I pick the knife back up. “Until then, I’ve got halibut to prep and a dining room that needs to make rent this month. So let’s just … cook. Okay?”

He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him deciding whether to push. He doesn’t. “Okay, Chef.”

“Good. Now grab an apron and help me with this fennel before you start getting philosophical on me.”

He laughs and reaches for his apron.

For a while, we work in the comfortable quiet that comes from three years of working side by side. Roman starts on the fennel while I move on to the brown butter sauce. I watch the butter melt in the pan, tilting it so it coats the bottom evenly. The milk solids start to separate, turning golden, and I breathe in that nutty, caramelized smell that never gets old.

The restaurant is waking up around us. I can hear the dishwasher arrive. The clang of sheet trays being pulled from the racks. Someone turns on music in the front, probably Frannie getting the dining room ready.

And for just a moment, I let myself forget about the consultant and the investors. The numbers that don’t add up and the fact that I’m one bad month away from losing everything.

For just a moment, it’s just me and my kitchen and the smell of brown butter.

Several hours later, I’m elbow-deep in an argument about garnish with Roman when Cora swoops over from her station like a small tornado.

“Guys, you have to try this,” Cora says, already moving. She’s got three plates lined up on her arm, each one holding what looks like a deconstructed lemon meringue situation. Her dark hair is already escaping from her braids, and there’s a smudge of something white on her cheek. “I’m thinking of this for this month’s dessert special. Lemon curd, burnt meringue, olive oil cake crumble.”

“Is that sea salt?” Roman asks, leaning in.

“Fleur de sel. And before you say anything —”

“I love it.” Roman throws a towel over his shoulder, already grinning.

“You haven’t even tried it yet.”

“I don’t need to. I know it’s gonna be good.”

I pick up a spoon and take a bite. The lemon curd is tart and silky. The meringue has that perfect bitter-sweet char. And the olive oil cake underneath cuts through with a richness you don’t see coming. “It’s good,” I admit, which is the highest praise I give before noon. “Maybe a little more salt?”

Cora’s already grinning when she turns back toward her station.

The kitchen doors slam open again, and this time Frannie practically bounces in, her red hair a wild halo around her face. She’s wearing a black dress that’s probably too nice for a Monday lunch shift, and there’s a barely contained energy about her that makes me tired just looking at her.

“The consultant is here!” she announces like she’s delivering news about a celebrity sighting.

My stomach drops.

The spoon is suddenly too heavy in my hand. I set it down on the counter with more care than necessary and glance at my watch.

9:58 a.m.

Shit.

Right. The consultant.

I’d managed to forget about it for the last — I check my watch again — four hours. A personal record.

“Already?” Roman sets down his spoon, watching me carefully. “I thought they weren’t coming until ten?”

“It is ten,” Frannie says. “Well, almost. She’s early. Very punctual. Very …” She waves her hand in a way that I think is supposed to mean something. “Professional-looking.”