"We haven't even survived tonight yet."
"Tonight's over. Tomorrow starts in six hours." She's writing now, pen moving in quick, precise strokes. "We'll need a full inventory of available local sources. A timeline for recipe testing.A staffing plan that doesn't rely on teenage dishwashers and sheer luck."
I watch her write. The focus in her expression. The way she attacks problems like they're puzzles waiting to be solved.
"Okay," I say.
She looks up. "Okay what?"
"Okay, let's do it. The catering job. All of it."
Maya whoops, the sound echoing in the walk-in. Ivy just nods once, satisfied, and returns to her list.
I look down at the letter in my hands. Three weeks to pull off something that could save the bistro or destroy what little credibility we've built.
No pressure.
Outside the walk-in, through the kitchen window, I can see the first hint of dawn turning the sky purple-grey. Morning coming whether we're ready or not.
I fold the letter carefully. Tuck it in my apron pocket next to the rosemary.
"Six hours," I say. "We should probably try to sleep."
"Sleep is for people with functioning ovens and reasonable life choices," Maya says, but she's grinning.
Ivy closes her notebook. "I'll be back at seven. With spreadsheets."
"Of course you will."
She leaves, taking a crate of salvageable carrots with her. Maya follows, still scrolling through social media responses on her phone.
I'm alone in the walk-in. Cold air. Sorted vegetables. A letter that might change everything tucked against my heart.
I think about my aunt. About rosemary and butter and the smell of welcome.
"I'm trying," I say to the empty kitchen. "I'm really trying."
The walk-in hums. The refrigeration unit kicks on.
Tomorrow, somehow, needs to be better than today.
I turn off the lights and lock the door behind me.
Three weeks.
CHAPTER 6
IVY
Iarrive at seven with three spreadsheets, two thermoses of coffee, and a headache that's been building since I left the bistro six hours ago.
Sleep didn't happen. Instead I sat at my kitchen table sorting seed packets and running numbers until my eyes burned.
The bistro door is unlocked. Inside, Rogan stands at the stove with his hair sticking up in four different directions, flipping what looks like buckwheat pancakes.
"You're early," he says without looking up.
"You're still awake."
