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“Brandon…”
“That I was done being his son.” I stare at the EMM stitched into the apron. Mom used to say cooking was about timing, knowing when to turn up the heat and when to let things simmer. “I can’t take it back. Can’t show him he was wrong about me.”
“Or maybe,” Naomi shifts, facing me fully, “you can show everyone else. Including yourself.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not,” she agrees, her hand finding mine. “But this place? This letter? He saw you in that kitchen at Elliot’s. He understood, finally. Maybe too late to tell you himself, but he knew.”
The memory of my mother in the kitchen hits me again. Flour on her nose, that ridiculous singing while she cooked, and the way she’d dance between stations like the kitchen was her stage.
Cook with love.
“You know what really kills me?” I trace the faded thread of Mom’s initials. “Part of me had this stupid fantasy. Opening night, him sitting at the chef’s table. Serving him my food. Watching his face when he finally understood what I could do. What I’ve always been able to do. I wanted him to be proud.”
“He is proud.” Naomi’s hand finds my cheek, turning my face toward her. “And he wouldn’t want you to give up. Make this place everything you wanted to show him. Cook the food you wanted him to taste. Let that be your goodbye.”
“I don’t even know where to start.” My gaze sweeps across the dusty kitchen. “This place needs… everything.”
“Start with what you know.” She stands, pulling me up with her. “Show me.”
I tuck Mom’s apron carefully into my back pocket and move to the center of the kitchen. The layout clicks in my head, muscle memory from years of watching, learning, and dreaming.
“Hot line here.” My hands trace the air. “Six burners, flat top, char grill. Prep stations along this wall. Pass window there. Wider than the original, better flow.”
The vision builds with each word. “Wood-fired oven in that corner. Pizza, roasted vegetables, whole fish. I always wanted—” I clear my throat. “Dad used to talk about this bistro in Paris. How the bread there was unlike anything he’d ever tasted. I wanted to recreate that for him. Show him we could have that right here.”
“Bread. I like that. What else?”
“Here.” I move to another station. “This would be for the veal. Mom’s osso buco recipe. The one time Dad actually smiledat dinner was when she made it. I perfected it last year, added my own twist.”
I move through the space, pointing out each station, each detail. The walk-in dimensions. The dish pit layout. The bar setup. It pours out of me like I’ve been holding it in for years. Because I have.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this before.”
“Maybe a few times.” I rest my hands on a counter, grounding myself in the cool metal. “When I couldn’t sleep. After bad days at the office. I’d design it in my head. Over and over.”
She fits herself against my side. “And now?”
“Now…” I pull out Mom’s apron, the fabric soft against my palms. “Now it’s real. And fucking terrifying.”
She kicks off her heels, padding across the tile in her stockings. “Let’s start by cleaning this up.”
“Your feet are gonna get filthy.”
“Good thing I know someone with a really nice shower.” She looks around. “Do you think there are any cleaning supplies left?”
“You really want to spend your day cleaning a dead man’s peace offering?”
“No.” She checks her watch. “I want to spend my morning helping my boyfriend start his restaurant.”
His restaurant.
She glances up at me through her lashes, a smile tugging at her lips, and fuck—her smile. It’s the kind of smile that lifts me up while everything else tears me down. It’s a smile that calms my mind while doubts eat away at it. And when she smiles like this, I feel it in my whole body, a warmth that shoots right to my heart.
“I haven’t said yes yet.” I catch her wrist as she passes toward the door.
“Haven’t you?” She steps between my legs. “Sounded to me like you already accepted it. Planning every detail. That’s not something you do for a place you don’t want.”