“Restaurant destroyer.”
Isla walked so quickly that Percy had to trot to keep up, his small hand clutched in hers as they left the market behind. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as curious glances followed them through the crowd. The afternoon sunshine felt too bright, too exposing.
“Mom, you’re walking super fast,” Percy complained, tugging at her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied, forcing herself to slow down. “I just remembered we have somewhere to be.”
But there was nowhere to be. Only the need to escape the market, to get away from Kirk’s face—the way his expression had shifted from warmth to confusion to something harder when he learned who she really was. What she really did.
I didn’t realize your work meant being so hard on things people care about.
He had said it quietly, but now the words came back with a sharper edge. Back then, he had not known she was a critic.
Now he did.
Now everyone did.
Anger flared, hot and sudden, in her chest. Why should she feel ashamed? She had built a career on honesty. On standards. On refusing to coddle mediocrity. Her readers counted on her for that. Needed her for that.
But beneath the anger lay something deeper, a hurt so raw she could barely look at it. The way Kirk had looked at her, asif seeing her properly for the first time and not liking what he found.
“Mom?” Percy’s voice pulled her back. “Where are we going?”
Isla stopped abruptly, realizing they had reached the town square. Across from them stood a handsome stone building with a carved wooden sign:Thornberg Restaurant.
Kirk’s family restaurant. The heart of everything he cared about.
The decision formed in an instant, hot and impulsive. If Kirk thought she was a destroyer, maybe she should show him exactly what she did. How she worked.
“We’re going to have lunch,” she told Percy, her voice steadier than she felt.
Percy’s eyes widened. “At Kirk’s family’s restaurant? Again?”
“Yes.”
She crossed the square, Percy hurrying alongside her. The door swung open easily under her hand, welcoming them into the warm interior. Lunch service was nearly over, and the restaurant was about half full. Rich scents of roasting herbs and simmering sauces filled the air. In any other mood, Isla might have closed her eyes just to take them in.
Not today. Today she was here to work.
A server approached with a welcoming smile. “Table for two?”
“Yes, please,” Isla replied, her professional mask sliding into place.
They were seated at a corner table with a clear view of the dining room—perfect for observing service patterns and plate presentations. Isla immediately noted the thoughtful spacing between tables, the quality of the linen, and the simple elegance of the place settings.
Percy fidgeted in his chair, his fingers drumming against the table. “This feels weird without Kirk,” he whispered.
The comment stung more than it should have. “We don’t need Kirk to have a nice lunch,” she said, more sharply than she intended.
Percy’s eyes widened, and Isla regretted her tone at once. Before she could apologize, a familiar figure approached the table.
“Well, look who it is.” Rachel’s smile was warm and apparently genuine. “I wasn’t expecting to see you two here today.”
“Rachel!” Percy’s face lit up. “How is the fairy garden?”
“Blooming,” Rachel said, her eyes flicking briefly to Isla’s face with a trace of curiosity. “You and the girls did a wonderful job creating it.”
Isla managed a polite smile, though her stomach tightened. Did Rachel know what had happened at the market? Had word already spread about the infamous food critic in their midst?
