The rest of the night is a blur of controlled chaos. By the time I’ve sorted out the gin situation, one of our servers has a question about a dietary restriction at table eight, and there’s a couple at table four who want to send their compliments to the chef and would love to meet him if he has a moment.
By the end of service, everything has clicked perfectly. The kitchen crushed every dish, the dining room was full of happy customers, and Margaret left with a notebook full of observations and a promise that the feature will run in two weeks. Afterthe last table clears and we’re cleaning up, Alex emerges from the kitchen looking exhausted but triumphant. He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble.
“We absolutely killed it tonight,” he says. “Did you see her face when she tried the panna cotta? I thought she was going to cry.”
“She loved everything,” I confirm. “And took three pages of notes.”
“This is it, Theo.” Alex shakes his head like he can’t quite believe it. “This is the kind of press that changes everything. If she writes what I think she’s going to write, we could be looking at potential investors knocking at our door. Maybe even some national attention down the line.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say, but I’m smiling too. “Let’s wait and see what she actually writes.”
“She’s going to write that we’re geniuses,” Alex insists. “That we’ve created something special here. Because we have.”
I don’t argue with him. Tonight feels like validation of everything we’ve worked for. All the years of early mornings and late nights and solving problems on the fly. This restaurant started as the crazy idea of two brothers. And now it’s become exactly what I always hoped it could be.
I’m still riding that high when I notice Emma sitting at the end of the bar, a glass of white wine in front of her, grading papers spread across the counter.
She’s gorgeous, her red hair loose around her shoulders, catching the warm light from the fixtures above. She’s chewing on the end of her pen as she reads something, that little furrow between her brows that means she’s concentrating. She looks up as I approach, and her face breaks into that smile that undoes me every single time.
“Hey, you,” she says.
“Hey yourself.” I lean down and pull her into a kiss, slow and thorough, not caring who sees. She tastes like the Viognier we keep behind the bar and something sweeter underneath. When Ipull back, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright. “How long have you been here?”
“About twenty minutes,” she says. “You were busy, so I grabbed a spot and pulled out some grading. Figured I’d make myself useful while I waited.”
I glance at the papers in front of her. Spelling tests, covered in her neat handwriting and cheerful stickers. She brings her work everywhere, always has something to do, and never seems to waste a minute. I love that about her. I love a lot of things about her.
“Give me twenty minutes,” I tell her. “I need to finish some paperwork, and then we can get out of here.”
“Take your time.” She picks up her wine and takes a sip, watching me over the rim of the glass. “I’m happy.”
I want to kiss her again. I want to skip the paperwork entirely and take her home right now. But there are still servers cleaning up and Alex is waiting to debrief, so I make myself step back.
“Twenty minutes,” I repeat. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, and the look in her eyes makes me want to finish that paperwork in ten.
Dark River Coffee sits on the corner of Main and Harbor, a small place with big windows that look out over the water. It’s where most of the town comes for their morning fix, but it’s quiet right now, mid-morning on a Tuesday, just a few people scattered at tables with laptops and books.
I stir my coffee and take a sip, the bitterness grounding me while I wait. Through the window I watch Victoria’s silver Audi pull into a spot across the street. She sits there for a moment, checking something on her phone, and I use the time to remind myself to stay calm. Civil. This is about Chloe. It’s always about Chloe.
Victoria gets out of the car and crosses the street, pushing through the door with that confident stride I remember from when we were married. She looks put together as always, her brown hair blown out and falling in perfect waves. She spots me immediately and gives a small nod, then heads to the counter to order.
I watch her chat with the barista while she waits for her drink. She’s always been good with people, Victoria. Easy to talk to, easy to like. It’s one of the things that drew me to her in the first place, back when we were young and everything felt simpler. She gets her coffee and makes her way over to my table.
“Theo,” she says warmly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to my cheek before settling into the chair across from me. “Thanks for meeting on short notice. I know you’re busy.”
“Of course,” I say. She arrived five days earlier than she’d initially said and only told me about it this morning, once she was already in town. I’d had to shuffle some things around to make this work.
“Alright,” she says, pulling out a leather planner and flipping to a page covered in her neat handwriting. “Shall we?”
We go over logistics. Which days she wants to pick up Chloe, what times work, where we’ll do the handoffs. I take notes in my phone, confirming details, making sure we’re both clear on the schedule.
“Anything else I should know?” she asks, looking up from her planner. “Activities, schedule conflicts?”
“Just the usual,” I say. “Art class, a field trip to the aquarium with her class on Thursday, and her soccer game. All the times are in the shared calendar.”
“Perfect.” Victoria leans back in her chair, wrapping her hands around her latte. “So. You mentioned you’re dating someone.”
