“I’m not cooking,” Meg replied, plating the orders. “I’m just following instructions.”
“Same thing, really,” Margo said with a small smile.
By three o’clock, the last customer had departed and Joey was wiping down tables. Meg glanced at her watch—thirty minutes until her committee call. Her stomach tightened as she remembered what was waiting for her.
Margo had returned from her birthday break and couldn’t stay out of the kitchen.
“You should go,” Margo said, noticing her checking the time. “Joey and I can handle the closing routine.”
Meg untied the apron, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric. “Thank you. For letting me help.”
“Thank you for showing up,” Margo replied simply.
As Meg hurried toward her car, she could smell the lingering scent of grilled cheese on her clothes and feel the slight ache in her feet from standing all afternoon. Her phone buzzed with yet another email from Brad, but for once, the corporate urgency felt distant, almost surreal after the gentle rhythm of the Beach Shack.
She had exactly nineteen minutes to transform back into the polished marketing executive who could handle million-dollar clients and committee politics.
CHAPTER FIVE
Meg hurried up Tyler’s driveway, already kicking off her sandals before reaching the door. The soles of her feet were sandy, the scent of grilled cheese clinging to her like perfume. Her phone buzzed with a calendar alert:Client Committee Call 4:00 PM Sharp.
It was 3:42.
She’d barely made it out of the Beach Shack in time, still smelling faintly of sourdough and cheddar, with sun-warmed skin and salt-damp hair. Her grandmother had waved her off with a knowing look and a reminder to “breathe through your mouth when corporate talks in circles.”
Meg laughed at the memory as she raced through Tyler’s quiet house, connecting her laptop at the dining room table. Her fingers flew across the keyboard—Wi-Fi connected, documents opened, slides queued. The digital clock read 3:57.
Three minutes to look like she hadn’t just flipped grilled onions for half of Laguna Beach.
She ducked into the bathroom, ran a brush through her wind-tangled hair, swiped on lip balm and the smallest flick of eyeliner. Even though it was an audio-only meeting, Meg straightened her blouse and squared her shoulders as if stepping onto a stage.
At 4:00 exactly, her phone rang.
“Meg Walsh,” she answered, voice smooth, clipped, professional.
On the other end: Brad, her direct supervisor. “Meg, I’ve got Tom Harrison and Sheila Martinez from the client committee with me, and Daniel Jackson from legal.”
Meg greeted each one with her usual blend of warmth and steel, already anticipating their concerns.
They didn’t disappoint.
“We understand there’s been a family emergency,” Tom said. “I hope everything’s alright.”
“It is, thank you,” Meg replied. “Just a short-term situation with my grandmother’s business.”
Brad didn’t even pause. “The San Clemente team is nervous. They asked for you specifically.”
“I’ve drafted a full remote operations plan,” Meg said, already clicking through her deck. “Everything is mapped out—deliverables, client comms, creative oversight, and approval chains. I’m reachable via Zoom, email, and phone.”
She pitched it cleanly, ticking every box.
But Daniel wasn’t convinced. “Meg, Mr. Reeves isconcerned about leadership visibility. A remote plan may not be enough.”
Meg felt her jaw tighten. “Understood. But my commitment to this project hasn’t changed. Only my location.”
Sheila, ever the diplomat, offered a softer tone. “We just want to be sure the momentum continues.”
The conversation looped and circled—concerns about client confidence, questions about timeline adjustments, thinly veiled threats about promotion implications. Meg fielded each one with practiced professionalism, but she could feel the familiar tightness building in her chest. The performance exhaustion that came from constantly proving herself worthy of trust.
