“How much money do we need?” I cross my arms over my chest in what I hope is a power stance.

“I can’t let you—”

“Let’s be clear.” I hold up a finger, cutting her off. “I do not care what you can or cannot let me do. I am head chef of Amy & May’s and I want a stake in the business. How. Much. Do. We. Need?”

“Ten thousand.”

I nod.

“I can put thirty up front,” I say.

“That sounds like your savings.”

“It is,” I say. “But it’s my savings. I get to choose what I do with it. Not you. And I want thirty percent of the business.”

She really must be at a loss because she doesn’t even negotiate. Amy nods. “Thirty percent.”

I step closer, so I can see the prism in her eyes, all the ways that brown can hold light, be bright. Her lashes brush her cheeks and I don’t—I do not—look at her lips, the press of her teeth into the delicate skin.

“And you stop making decisions for me.”

“Deal,” she whispers.

I grab my coat and bag, opening the office door. “Amy? You better watch it. The next time you tell me to take another job... I might listen.”

Chapter Twelve

Amy

The restaurant is loud enough that the sound of laughter and the clatter of dishes makes its way all the way down the hallway to my office. Normally, I’m able to block everything out to focus on the work in front of me, but all I can do now is listen to each murmur, burst of laughter, every scrape of a fork on a plate to try to assess it. Are they enjoying the food? Are they enjoying themselves? Are they going to come back? Will tonight be the night that turns things around?

With Sophie’s investment, the back rent I owed is paid. But the rent for next month is still due on the first, vendors are owed at the end of the month. And then, of course, there’s payroll. My savings have allowed me to keep this restaurant running without taking home a salary yet, but even that won’t be enough. The tiny cursor on my spreadsheet blinks and blinks, judging me.

Even if we are chosen for Cooking for Camilla, I don’t think we’re going to make it.

A wave of heat washes over me, like if emotion, anxiety, fear, and failure had a temperature. I wish my mom were here, that I could crawl under her cumulonimbus of a duvet, that never seemed to lose its volume, after work tonight. That I could just listen to her breathing and hear the soft sound of delight she’d make when she woke up to find me next to her. It wouldn’t help any of this, but it would feel a lot better than having to prepare Sophie and my team that we are destined for closure.

If my father wasn’t such an asshole, I might ask him for some advice. Lord knows he loves to hear himself talk. But he’d never let himself get into this situation in the first place. The sound in the restaurant comes back to me as someone pushes the swinging door down the hall open.