Page 100 of The Reaper
His brow lifted a fraction—not shock, just interest.
“I want space in my life for more than just that kitchen,” I went on. “I want us. I want to travel. To find flavors and ideas in places we’ve never been, then bring them back and build something new.”
The corner of his mouth curved, but he didn’t interrupt. His silence made room for the rest.
“I want to take Alastair’s restaurant,” I said—Alastair, not a tremor in the name—“strip it down to the bones, and rebuild it my way.”
Approval darkened his eyes.
“And …” My throat tightened. I pressed on, anyway. “I want to rebuild Meggie’s on Folly Beach. Not because I’m paying some debt to my parents, but because I think they’d want me to have joy in it. Real joy. Not this … obligation I’ve been carrying.”
His expression shifted, something fierce and gentle braided together. “Good,” he said. Just that. Like blessing and battle plan both.
“I think part of why I couldn’t see it before was because I was too busy proving myself,” I admitted. “Like if I slowed down,everything would fall apart. That dropped salmon in the kitchen—” I huffed a laugh that wasn’t humor. “It sounds ridiculous, but it was like someone lit a flare. I realized I’d been gripping so tightly I couldn’t tell the difference between surviving and living.”
“And now?” he asked.
“Now, I want to live.” The words were solid under my tongue, like a key turned in a lock. “And your steady presence—” I slid him a wry look “—has been the foundation I didn’t know I needed to make it all right. To make it good.”
His jaw flexed once. “Meg …”
“I’m going to promote Finn,” I said before tears could get any ideas. “Give him the choice—be my right hand on the creative side and oversee the group, or take the head chef role at Promenade. Either way, he’s earned it.”
Caleb nodded, decisive, the way he moved through rooms when the plan fit. “Finn’s a great guy.”
“He certainly is,” I said, smiling. “Don’t tell him I said that. His head won’t fit through the pass.”
We lay there breathing in sync for a beat, the quiet not empty this time but full—ideas moving into place, futures clicking on their hinges.
“You know the Danes will want to help with money,” he said eventually. “Whatever Atlas told you last night … I’m sure that was just the beginning.”
“I know.” I braced for the old resistance to rise and found … nothing prickly. Just calm.
“You okay with that?”
“Yes,” I said. “Because it’s not rescue. I’ve done well on my own. I have reserves. But letting them invest? That’s partnership. They’ll get a return. And I’ll make them proud.”
His mouth tilted. “You already make me proud.”
The lump that swelled in my throat wasn’t fear. It was that bone-deep certainty I hadn’t felt since I was a kid, before fire and funerals, before any of it: belonging. I was where I should be—this bed, this house, this man.
A soft knock sounded, and Caleb called, “Yeah.”
Teddy slipped in with a tray—French press, cups, a small pitcher of cream, and a plate of shortbread that looked like it had been cut by a ruler. “Good morning,” he said, without glancing at the tangle of limbs and sheets. “Breakfast is an hour out if you like it in the atrium. Chef Delphine can push if you prefer later.”
“Thank you,” I said. It came out warm, grateful. He inclined his head and disappeared as silently as he’d arrived.
Caleb poured, the scent of dark roast lifting in the cool air, steam curling, his hands steady on the press. He handed me a cup, his fingers brushing mine. It made heat lick up my spine, stupidly, considering we were both barely clothed under this sheet.
“Tell me where we go first,” he said, as if we were already packed. “Pick a place. We’ll start there.”
Words crowded my mouth—places I’d only said out loud to myself on long, lonely nights counting tasting spoons. “Oaxaca,” I said. “For the markets. For mole I could study for a month and still not understand. Then Basque country—San Sebastián—pintxos that change how you think about balance. Then Tokyo for Tsukiji’s ghosts and Toyosu’s order, the choreography of knives at four a.m. Sicily, for lemons and salted wind. Vietnam for fish sauce and fire. Peru for the altitude and the potatoes that taste like sky.”
His smile deepened with every city. “Good,” he said when I stopped to breathe. “We’ll do all of it.”
“Can we afford all of it?” I asked, half playful, half real.
“Yes,” he said simply. “We can.” He saw the quick flash of pride and added, “And because you’ll make it pay for itself.”
