“Amy,” I say slowly, testing and throwing out a few different approaches to yet another new conflict. “I don’t think this is the right way to go.”

She cocks her head to the side, crossing her arms over her chest. “And what would you do differently?”

I pull up the recipes I’d been brainstorming on my phone. “There’s really cool stuff happening in vegetarian and vegan cooking. This chef in Ottawa—that’s in Canada,” I add, to which she rolls her eyes, “creates high-quality, high-priced tasting menus with vegetable and fermentation-focused foods. I’d love to be able to try stuff like that, and the best part is we could use the fermentation process as part of our brand.”

Amy peers at the photo I’ve pulled up, rows of jars of different fermented foods, backlit by a soft golden light. The layout is similar to something you’d see in a steakhouse but with carrots in mason jars rather than the vast wine selection on display.

“This kind of food-decor combo in the Amy & May’s space lends itself to the overall domestic vibe,” I say, leaving my phone in front of her, a strategic move.

Amy sits forward, leaning on her elbows. She peers at my phone screen like she doesn’t quite trust it, her lower lip caught delicately in her teeth.

Holy crap. It’s working.

I’m not going to have to come up with three new recipes in the next few days.

She blinks away from the screen. She gives me her profile, her jawline elegant, her neck long, accentuated by her short hair. “No. I want to go with shellfish. Maybe we can try this in the spring.”

I huff out a breath through my nose, so frustrated with this imperious, “Amy knows best” attitude, it’s better to say nothing at all. But she hears my sigh for what it is.

Annoyance. Resistance. Fatigue.

“What else can we do?” she asks, her tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. She sits back in her chair, like she’s just as surprised as I am at her outburst. Quieter, she says, “I pay my staff a fair wage. I don’t ask them to rely on tips for their livelihood. I’m trying to bring in health insurance this year. I can’t do any of that if people don’t come to the restaurant.” She shakes her hand at the empty dining room. “No one comes here. People are depending on me.”

“I know that,” I say slowly, trying to control my tone and my temper. “Maybe if you explained why you think shellfish is better than easily sourced, inexpensive vegetables that we can do all the prep for ourselves, it will help me understand...”

“Because I said so,” Amy snaps.

I rock back in my chair. Amy and I have argued before. We’ve sent out warning shots, sniped at each other. Well, she’s sniped. I’ve rolled my eyes and sighed. But we communicated that way, at least, without getting out of hand.

This is out of hand.