Page 106 of Cooking Up My Comeback

She stops pacing and faces me directly. “But I also know that living afraid isn’t actually living. And I can’t do this again, Brett. I can’t be with a guy who’s already planning their emotional exit strategy before we’ve even had a real beginning.”

“I’m not planning an exit strategy?—”

“Then what are you doing? Because it sounds like you’re telling me you’re too terrified to really try.”

She gathers up her plans from the dusty tarp, her movements sharp with hurt and frustration. “I need to think about this. About us. About whether I’m strong enough to fight for a guy who’s not sure we’re worth the risk.”

“Amber, wait?—”

But she’s already moving toward the door, clutching those rolled-up dreams like armor against her chest.

“The contractors will be here soon,” she says without meeting my eyes. “We should focus on the restaurant for now.”

The sound of truck doors slamming announces the contractors’ arrival. Seth waves through the window, ready to start building our dream.

But as I watch Amber’s car disappear around the corner, I wonder if I’ve already sabotaged the most important thing we were supposed to build together.

“Morning, Brett,” Seth calls out as he approaches. “Ready to start building something beautiful?”

I stare at the empty doorway where Amber stood moments ago, the taste of fear and regret bitter in my mouth.

“Not sure,” I say. “Not sure at all.”

TWENTY-THREE

AMBER

On January first, I’m standing in our food truck at dawn, chopping onions like my life depends on it. Which, considering we’re about to serve food to half of Twin Waves at their First Day Beach Walk, might actually be true.

Our permits came through yesterday. When Carol Woods called to apologize and congratulate us, I may have ugly-cried into the phone. Professional business owner, that’s me.

“Remind me why we thought feeding sixty people constituted a good idea?” I ask Brett, who’s been setting up our coffee station since before sunrise.

“Because you excel at this and everyone’s going to love our food,” he says without looking up from the thermos he’s testing. So matter-of-fact. Like doubt never crossed his mind.

After our argument yesterday at the restaurant site, we’ve been dancing around each other with careful politeness. All business, no personal feelings. Which works fine until he says things like this with complete faith in my abilities.

“What if we run out of soup?”

“We won’t.”

“What if the coffee tastes terrible?”

“It doesn’t.”

“What if I accidentally poison everyone and become the woman who ruined New Year’s for the entire town?”

Brett sets down his coffee and approaches, gently taking the knife from my hands before I chop my fingers off. “Hey. Look at me.”

I meet his eyes, and the steady warmth there makes my racing heart slow down. Despite everything unresolved between us, he’s here. Steady. Present.

“What if everything goes perfectly?” he says. “What if this launches everything we’ve dreamed about?”

Mom arrives at ten with what she calls her “church lady brigade.” Three women who look like they could organize the Pentagon if given enough coffee and determination.

“Don’t you worry about anything, sweetheart,” says Margaret, who runs half the volunteer organizations in a three-county area. “We’ve been feeding crowds since before you were born.”

By eleven-thirty, we’re set up at the beach pavilion.The morning delivers one of those perfect January days that makes you remember why people fall in love with coastal North Carolina. Crisp air, brilliant sunshine, and light that makes everything look like a postcard.