Rubbing at my forehead, I should be proud. Aureum is interested. We’re not that far apart even if there are a few things I’m not willing to give up.
Instead, I’m…restless.
The phone vibrates against the table, skittering across the wood like it’s got somewhere to be. I glance at the display and seePapa Alecflashing on the screen. Midmorning calls from himaren’t unusual, but something in my gut tightens before I even swipe to answer.
“Hey, Papa.” I force casual as I unfurl my fingers that have formed into fists. “We still good for me to bring lunch?”
There’s a pause, the kind that stretches too long. I’m going over there after my next meeting to have lunch with my fathers.
He clears his throat, and the low hum of worry in his voice punches straight through me. “Actually, don’t come for lunch, Sam. Bas had a rough night. He’s finally resting. I gave him something for the pain, and I’d rather he sleep as long as he can.”
I press my hand to the cool, smooth surface of the dining table, grounding myself. “How bad?”
The question is rhetorical. I already know the answer. It’s there, in the weary edges of his sigh.
“He’s just…tired. The meds help, but the pain…it’s more frequent. He tries to hide it, but he’s been hurting more lately. I’m sorry—” His voice cracks and so does something inside me.
“Hey, it’s all right. I get that fucking helpless feeling.” I don’t usually swear around him, but I’m too raw now to filter.
“Yes.” His voice is low, solemn. “I’ll call when he wakes up, okay? Come by later.”
Something eases a bit within my chest. Even though I’ve been living on my own for many years now, I’ve always seen my dads at least four or five times a week. But since Bas’s diagnosis, it’s been daily. No question. I’m relieved to hear he isn’t asking me to stay away all day.
“Yeah, I will.”
When I hang up, the chime of my phone alarm fills the short-lived silence. The noise seems distant like I’m underwater. I stare at the screen a second longer, ignoring the alarm and waiting for it to light up again, for Alec to call back and tell me he overreacted. To tell me to come for lunch after all. But it stays dark.
Bas has been sick for months, and yet every time there’s a newbad night, it still knocks the air out of me. He’s the one who taught me how to hold a knife, how to taste a sauce instead of just eat it. The man could make a roast chicken feel like a fête, even on a Tuesday. The idea of a world without him—without his laugh, his impossible standards, his steady warmth—is wrong.
I drag a hand over my face, trying to swallow the ache in my throat. I should be dialing into my next meeting, but all I can think about is the house across town, blinds drawn, my fathers’ lives shrinking down to the quiet rhythm of rest and waiting. And for the first time all morning, the restaurant and the daily obligations of my business are too loud, too alive, when the person who taught me to love it all might be slipping away.
The laptop rings and it’s my next meeting, an interview for a lifestyle piece—“The Man Behind Montreal’s Most Romantic Kitchen.”
I had laughed when I saw the draft headline next to a photo of me in Beaulieu’s kitchen, both of which could be part of the final article. And not in a funny way, more resigned and sardonic. Romantic, sure, if you ignore the burns, the hours, and the caffeine dependency.
Of course, I get the angle they’re going for. Not to brag, but I’m an attractive man and my looks have definitely played into what draws people to both my dining rooms and on-screen kitchen.
Straightening my posture, I join the meeting and slip on my most charming smile. The reporter is young, bright-eyed, and determined to get a quote she hasn’t heard before.
After introductions, she gets down to business with a question I get most often. “What inspired you to cook?”
“My fathers.” The answer is automatic and loaded with both pride and pain. “They taught me everything—discipline, patience, balance. How to cook, how to run a restaurant.” I leanin close as if I’m about to spill my secrets, and she mirrors my move, eager for any morsel I’m willing to divulge. “And that food is supposed to mean something.”
It’s true. Maybe it sounds simple and obvious, but in their home, every meal still is a celebration—a way of sayingwe’re here, together.The table’s always crowded with stories and laughter, arguments and teasing, the kind of noise that makes a house come alive.
Food has always been our language, our love letter, our peace offering. Even an ordinary Tuesday dinner becomes something worth lingering over, because it’s never just about the food. It’s about belonging. Most days, I’m still at their table for at least one meal, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hmm, that’s interesting.” She leans back in her chair. “Tell me more. How has this influenced how you run your restaurant?”
“Well, that’s what I try to bring into my kitchen—the same heartbeat. I want every dish, every plate that leaves the pass, to carry a piece of that warmth. Because when people taste it, I want them to feel what I believe in my very bones. That food, done right, connects us. It’s another form of love.”
Neck tense and shoulders climbing to my ears the second I finish talking, I’m raw and likely too honest right now. Especially right after the call with Alec. My big mouth may have landed me in the very last place I want to be.
My childhood.
While I was waxing poetic about my family and approach to my business—heck, my life—I unwittingly opened the proverbial door. All this reporter has to do is walk right in.
She pauses, a funny expression skating over her features, and I prepare for her question to be about my past. My mother. To note how my focus and importance on equating food to familyand love conflicts with the very reality of my childhood—or more specifically, how I came to be and my teenage years.
