The scent of thyme and roasted garlic hit Olivia the second she stepped through the front doors of her brother's restaurant. It was faint now—just lingering from earlier prep—but it clung to the log walls and floated with the woodsmoke wafting in from the kitchen. Outside, the rugged Montana landscape stretched beyond the garden, a patchwork of wild grass and cultivated rows glowing gold in the early evening sun. The mountains stood like painted guardians in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow even in late fall.
Liam's restaurant looked like something carved straight out of a dream. A large log-framed structure with a wide porch and big, double front doors, it sat proudly just on the outskirts of Bozeman, surrounded by open land and quiet calm. A real house, retrofitted to work like a fine-tuned machine. Every corner of it reflected their shared vision, her eye, his grit.
Inside, the first floor buzzed with low, warm energy. Cream-colored walls played off the exposed timber beams overhead. Burgundy and forest green accents softened the rustic frame, giving the entire space a grounded elegance. To the left, a polished mahogany bar gleamed under soft lighting, already stocked and prepped for cocktail hour. To the right, the hostess stand sat confidently beside a modest waiting area for walk-ins and to-go pickups. Just beyond, the main dining room opened up—tables placed with precision in the center, booths hugging the wall near the bar, and giant windows stretching the length of the back wall. Those windows gave guests a full view of the garden and, beyond it, the staggering beauty of the mountains.
She smiled. This place was alive. A hum of clinking glass, muffled music, and prep chatter danced in the background. Staff moved like clockwork. A few waved or called her name in passing.
"Welcome back, Liv," someone called from the open kitchen doorway.
Olivia returned the wave. Her chest warmed. She felt it in her bones—this was more than a restaurant. This was hers too, in a way. She had helped Liam build it, dream it. Some of the forest-black-and-white photographs hanging on the walls, mist-laced pine trees, moss-covered stumps, a single crow perched on a snowy branch were hers. Her fingerprints were all over this place, and not just on the iPad reservation system.
She and Liam moved through the kitchen doors at the back, the smell deepening—meats, fresh bread, and basil mingling. The kitchen itself could've been its own spread in a chef's magazine. A gleaming stainless-steel sanctuary. Double convection ovens, top-tier six-burner gas ranges, blast chillers, sous-vide stations, a massive prep counter, and even a custom-built stone pizza oven with a blackened chimney that stretched to the ceiling. Steam rose from boiling pasta pots. Metal clinked. Knives moved in rhythm on cutting boards. It was chaos and precision, beautiful and brutal.
No one stopped moving, but they greeted her as they could. The restaurant opened in twenty minutes, and it showed.
They stepped through to the manager's office. Liam shut the door quickly behind them and shrugged off his coat, tossing it onto a wall hook with practiced ease.
"Okay, I know you know this place better than most, so I don't have to give you the whole tour," he said, already reaching for a clipboard. "I just need you to run front of house for me."
"Anything else?" Olivia asked, eyeing the office. It was painfully organized—clearly labeled binders lined the shelf, highlighters clipped to calendars, spreadsheets pinned neatly to corkboards. The floor even looked vacuumed.
Liam glanced up. "Yeah. Don't let Vanessa bust any tables."
"What? Why?"
He leaned in, lowering his voice. "She's sweet. One of my host girls. But clumsy as fuck. I've comped more meals and replaced more dishes because of her than anyone else on staff."
"So fire her? Maybe she's just not cut out for this."
"I could," he muttered, scratching his head. "But she lives fifteen minutes out in that camper park community with her grandmother. Transportation's a mess. She's working her way through school. I just… don't have the heart."
Olivia crossed her arms, smirking. "Look at you being a softie."
"Yeah, well… anyway. Everyone else knows their roles. Most have been here since opening. You'll be fine."
She saluted him playfully. "Got it. I'll do my best, boss."
Liam grinned and headed for the stairs that led up to the third floor his private residence above the restaurant.
Olivia moved back to the hostess stand and grabbed the iPad, scanning the reservations. The place was already half-booked, with a few large parties scheduled upstairs. She needed to assign sections before the doors opened. She headed to the bar next.
"Hey, Jamal," she said warmly.
Jamal looked up from his checklist and grinned, his whole face lighting up. "Livy!"
He walked around the bar and pulled her into a tight hug. She always forgot how tall he was until he was looming over her again, basketball-tall, with warm skin, light brown eyes, and the kind of smile that made people forget what they were saying. The irony was, for all his striking features, Jamal was still shy, a bookworm at heart. She adored that about him.
"You look good," she said, pulling back.
"Thanks. Just graduated and started my Master's in Computer Science."
"Get out! That's incredible. And you're still reading with my book club?"
He grinned. "Of course. Top-tier picks. Plus, I've made friends all over. I've even visited a few."
"You what? Why didn't anyone tell me? I could've joined y'all!"
"I promise next trip, we're adding you to the group chat."
"You betta," she teased, tapping the bar playfully.
He poured her a cranberry and Sprite without asking—classic Livy order.
She filled him in on the current team roster. He helped her break down everyone's strengths:
Vanessa and Kelly: hosts
Matthew: Better near the kitchen
Anthony and Gina: strong with VIPs and the second floor
Tobias and Kem: ideal for large parties
Jesus and K-I-M: versatile, fast, often run to-go
John: busser and backup food runner
With her notes sorted, she returned to the hostess stand and began assigning sections. By the time she finished, the staff was already gathering. Olivia walked over to the small table where they sat, ready to meet the unfamiliar faces.
"I just added everyone's task," she said with a warm smile. "I know you don't know me, and my rude brother didn't introduce us. I'm Olivia Webber, most folks here call me Livy. Please do the same. I'll learn names and faces soon, but for now, doors open in five minutes. Find your section and prep. Thank you all for being here. Seriously, we couldn't do this without you."
A ripple of smiles and nods passed through the group. She felt their nerves ease slightly.
She slipped back to the manager's office to catch her breath. She intended to send a quick text to Grayson while she still had the opportunity. Her mind was a jumble. Her fingers hovered over the screen, uncertain of the words she wanted to type. Would it be something cliché, like "I love you, miss you, can't wait to see you"? Her mind drifted back to the incredible makeout session they had shared in the cozy hotel lodge, the memory of his lips on hers still vivid and electrifying. For a moment, she almost forgot about her brother and everything else around her. How could one man so thoroughly sweep her away from reality? Her thoughts were tangled and confused, a whirlwind of emotions that left her feeling "fucktrated," a tangled mix of desire and distraction, leaving her unable to think clearly whenever he was near.
She dropped the phone back into her purse and groaned softly. No. She didn't need a distraction. Not yet. Just then, Liam walked back in with a bowl of something hot and heavenly.
"Spinach cannelloni," he announced, offering her the plate with a flourish. "Tomato, béchamel, a generous sprinkle of grana padano, and freshly picked basil."
She attacked the dish with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't eaten in days, emitting a deep, satisfied moan as the flavors exploded in her mouth. The creamy béchamel mingled perfectly with the tangy tomato sauce, while the cheese added a rich, nutty depth.
"Damn, Liv. Did you escape from somewhere?" he teased, raising an eyebrow at her ravenous appetite.
"Mmmf—so good," she managed to say, her words muffled by a mouthful of the delicious pasta.
Liam chuckled, though his eyes held a note of brotherly concern. "Alright, slow down a bit before you choke. The doors are open, and you've got a few minutes to let that settle." He left her in peace. She took a long sip of her cranberry and Sprite, leaned back, and sighed. It was going to be one hell of a night.
The warmth of the restaurant was thick with savory aromas—rosemary and roast chicken, garlic butter, grilled lemon over trout, and something sweet like caramelized sugar wafting from the back prep stations. The low din of silverware clinking, heels against the hardwood, and the hum of guests mid-laughter was a kind of music Olivia hadn't realized she missed.
But peace is a moment—and it passed fast.
Near the front, raised voices began to cut through the atmosphere like static in a warm song. Olivia's eyes snapped up. Vanessa was at the hostess stand, eyes wide, face flushed, hands anxiously tapping the tablet screen. Across from her stood a man—mid-sixties, ruddy cheeks now crimson with frustration, white hair styled sharply despite the tension on his brow. His voice bellowed over the murmur of the waiting guests.
"I've come all the time, and I always have a reservation. Now you want me to wait as a walk-in? I don't think so!"
The woman beside him barely looked up from her phone. She was striking—early twenties, tall, blonde, and tanned like she'd just flown in from somewhere warmer. Her dress was low-cut and glittery, clashing wildly with his charcoal peacoat and wool slacks.
Olivia stepped in just as the older man barked something else, his voice slicing through the lobby.
"Vanessa," Olivia said, calm but firm. "Thank you, I've got it from here."
Vanessa exhaled visibly and stepped back with a grateful nod. Olivia turned to the man, keeping her voice low, professional—but undeniably irritated.
"Sir, I understand your frustration. May I check the reservation myself?"
"Please do," he snapped. "Maybe then someone will finally realize I don't just show up without planning."
Olivia clicked quickly through the iPad. There it was. Name: Beetman. Party of two. Reserved for next Friday.
"I see the issue," she said smoothly, turning the screen toward him. "You do have a reservation—for next week, same day. Not tonight."
Mr. Beetman blinked, then frowned deeper. "That can't be."
"I assure you, it is. And we're currently at capacity. We aren't saying you can't dine with us. But we don't have a table unless you want to be seated in our staff break room. And I can tell you, the experience won't match what you're used to."
"No," he muttered quickly. "I don't want that."
"That's what I figured," Olivia said, glancing at the name again. "So, Mr. Beetman, here are your options: you can wait for the next available table downstairs—looks like 22 minutes. Or return next week and enjoy your reserved second-floor table as planned."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough that the other waiting guests couldn't hear. "I recommend the latter. You've already made a bit of a scene. I'm sure you don't want to sit down and be stared at for the next hour."
Mr. Beetman's gaze darted to the eyes watching him. His lady friend still hadn't looked up. His face flushed deeper.
"I'm currently not in the mood to eat here," he muttered. "I'll come back next week."
Olivia gave her best forced smile. "We look forward to seeing you."
He turned with a huff, and the young woman followed without question, still glued to her screen. The door swung shut behind them.
Olivia turned back to the waiting guests. "I apologize for the inconvenience. We'll have a server come take your drink orders—on the house." That got a scattered round of applause.
She walked briskly to the bar and grabbed Jesus.
"Could you take everyone's drink order in the front? Yes, liquor's included."
Jesus grinned. "On it."
Olivia was about to turn when her eyes landed on a familiar figure tucked into a booth near the windows.
Grayson.
He leaned back in the booth, one arm resting casually along the seat, the other cradling a short glass of whiskey. Gone was the business suit. He wore a cream turtleneck that hugged his frame, soft but clean, with khaki-colored slacks that still somehow made him look like he owned the place. His hazel eyes tracked her like she was the only light in the room.
Her stomach dropped. Her heart followed.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, forcing a casual tone as she stepped closer.
He didn't break eye contact. "Well, currently, I'm enjoying the show."
She blushed and ducked her head, her voice low. "We do aim to please here."
"Did you want something to eat? I can sneak you a plate."
Grayson smirked, sipping from his glass. "Miss Webber, unless you're what's on the menu, I think I'll wait."
She turned to retreat, but he grabbed her wrist gently and pulled her into the booth. His kiss landed on her cheek, warm and lingering, before he let go.
She blinked, cheeks pink, heart racing. "Okay. I'll be right here," she mumbled, darting away before he could grab her again.
She escaped to the back, passing servers like currents in a stream. Liam looked up from plating a salmon dish, his chef's coat slightly open, sleeves rolled.
"Sup? You okay?"
"I just needed a second."
Liam smiled. "Traffic's been wild lately—since the article ran. Thank you again."
"Shut up," she muttered. "This is your dream. I'd help you build it a thousand times over."
She hesitated. "Grayson's in the first-floor booth."
"I know," he said before she could finish. "One of the servers already spotted him. I told them he's VIP."
"You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did. Do you know how many of my staff, including Tobias, came asking who he is?"
Olivia groaned. "You're impossible."
"You love me." He winked and turned back to the kitchen line. "Just make sure you're not only serving one guest, yeah?"
Back on the floor, Olivia moved through the sea of tables. She passed the stairs and made her way toward the second floor.
One of the private dining rooms pulsed with music and laughter—an engagement party. Olivia knocked, then stepped in.
It was loud. Wine-glass loud. Everyone was flushed, laughing, waving napkins. The bride-to-be wore a sash. The groom wore the drunkest smile Olivia had ever seen.
She approached the server. "We need two Uber vans ordered. And I need to make sure no one drives."
Then she had an idea.
She grabbed a large bowl, asked for half a bottle of their champagne, and entered the room again with the bartender at her side.
"Hi everyone, I'm Livy Webber. My brother owns the place. We want to thank you for choosing us tonight. And I want to play a game."
They cheered.
"It's called Who's Who. Everyone who drove, toss your keys into this bowl."
Keys clinked. Laughter rose.
"The game is simple," she continued, placing a napkin over the keys. "I describe a keyring, and someone has to guess who it belongs to. If you're wrong or too slow—you drink. The person who gets the most correct wins a dessert."
Cheers. Shouts. She reached in, picked up a key with two fobs and a strange bead. Someone shouted, "That's Tori's! Lexus!"
Wrong. They all drank.
Anthony took over, continuing the game, while Olivia snuck to the bar and filled an empty champagne bottle with water.
"They won't notice," she whispered to the bartender. "Trust me. I'll be back with dessert."
Fifteen minutes later, she returned with tiramisu.
"Who won?"
"Everyone did!" they shouted.
Anthony pointed out the real winner—a guy at the far end, still red-faced from drinking. Olivia smiled and approached.
But just as he reached for the plate, she pulled it back.
"Wait. This night isn't just about winning a game. It's about celebrating two people choosing each other—every day. So tonight, the real winners are these two."
She placed the dessert between the couple, who beamed.
Everyone clapped. She smiled. "Once you're done, the Ubers are waiting outside. You'll get your keys back once you're safely loaded in."
Back downstairs, Gina greeted her with a smile. "Uber vans are almost here."
"You're the best," Olivia said, then made a quick loop around the floor. The last wave of dinner service had ended. Cleanup had begun. She headed toward Grayson.
He sat casually, scrolling his phone.
"Did you like your gift?"
"I did. Would've preferred eating it with you."
"Maybe next time," she whispered.
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek—then quickly danced away before he could catch her.
She finished the last few front-of-house duties, closed out tips, and locked the main doors.
Grayson was gone.
"Lose someone?" Liam asked, stepping out from the kitchen.
"Kind of. Grayson—"
"He's upstairs. I sent Jasmine to let him in."
Relieved, Olivia smiled and followed the stairway to Liam's third-floor home.
The place was cozy but masculine. Wood everywhere—walls, trim, ceiling beams—interrupted by dark green and burnt-orange accents. Moose décor was sprinkled tastefully: a moose-shaped wine stopper, throw pillows, a carved key rack. A dark leather couch with flannel pillows faced a stone fireplace. Her black-and-white photography hung proudly: a still lake with one man fishing. A moose standing near the same lake.
In one of the lounge chairs, Grayson sat in quiet conversation with Jasmine—tall, sunny, dark blonde hair, and a lightness in her smile that made everyone feel seen. She and Liam had been together nearly a decade, content in their world of "no rings, no kids, just us."
"Front's closed," Olivia announced.
"Then you're done," Liam said.
"I've got a few more backend checks, but yes."
"Good. See you tomorrow—around 3:30. I'll actually feed you this time."
Olivia gasped. "I didn't scoff food!"
"You inhaled it," Jasmine teased.
"She was drunk," Liam added.
"Shut up, Liam!"
She grabbed Grayson's hand and pulled him toward the back staircase.
Outside, the November chill was biting. Olivia shivered, clutching the railing.
"You don't even know what I drive," he said, leading her toward the Land Rover.
He opened her door. Once in, the heat cranked up slowly.
"Drunk, huh?" he asked with a teasing smile.
"I was hungover. Not the point. He wasn't supposed to tell you."
"Why?"
She looked out the window.
Because seeing Paul wrecked her. Because ghosting Grayson had felt easier than explaining the spiral. Because she needed him, and it scared her to say it.
Grayson turned, placing a warm hand on her face. "Little fox... you okay?"
"I will be," she whispered. "I need to explain some things. Just... not here. Not tonight."
He held her gaze. Then nodded. "Okay. We can do that."
He reached across and buckled her in.
She buckled his heart in place without even trying.
And they drove off into the dark, toward warmth, toward sleep, toward whatever conversation came next.