"Because she died. Not because she failed." I step closer. "You inherited something worth protecting. But you're treating it like a playground instead of a responsibility."
The silence stretches between us. The radio plays on, oblivious.
Finally, Rogan nods. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay, you're right." He spreads his hands. "I've been sloppy. Cutting corners because I thought I could charm my way through. But you're right. It's not enough."
I blink, surprised. "You're agreeing with me?"
"Don't sound so shocked." He smiles, but it's different now. Quieter. "I do occasionally listen."
"Occasionally being the key word."
"I'm trying, Ivy. I know I'm a mess. I know I drive you crazy. But I promise—" He gazes at my eyes, serious. "I promise I'll try. To slow down. To think ahead. To build something that lasts instead of just something that burns bright and fast."
The words settle in my chest, warm and unexpected.
"That's all I'm asking," I say quietly.
"Then we're good?"
"We're getting there." I head toward the door, pause with my hand on the frame. "Two days until the critic?"
He freezes. "What?"
"You said you had a tasting scheduled. Three days from now."
"I didn't say that."
"Maya mentioned it. This afternoon." I turn back. "A small tasting. If the critic approves, Mayor Elsie said something about debt relief following."
Rogan's face does something complicated. Surprise, then panic, then resignation. "Damn it, Maya."
"So it's true."
He runs both hands through his hair, pulling the topknot loose. "It's not finalized. The critic's assistant reached out. They're passing through the region, thought they'd stop by. Very casual, very low-pressure."
"Nothing about a food critic is low-pressure."
"I know that." He starts pacing. "But if I say yes, and if she likes what she tastes, then yes, the Mayor said she'd talk to the bank. Maybe buy me some time on the loan."
"And if she doesn't like it?"
"Then I'm screwed either way." He stops pacing, looks at me. "So I might as well try."
My practical instincts war with the part of me that's starting to believe in him. Three days isn't enough time. The kitchen still needs work. The sourcing isn't finalized. The menu is half-formed at best.
But the determined, vulnerable, and stubborn look on his face makes me nod.
"Three days."
"Three days," he echoes.
"Then we'd better get to work." With my phone in hand, I’m already opening my calendar. "Tomorrow morning, six AM. I'll bring the supplier contacts and we'll finalize your orders. You'll prep a test menu. No flourishes, no chaos, just clean, careful cooking that highlights the ingredients."
"Six AM?"
