Page 109 of Cooking Up My Comeback

Chad’s face flushes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about?—”

“Back off,” Brett says quietly, and something in his tone makes Chad take a step backward. “Walk away.”

But the whispers are starting.

Maybe there really is something wrong with their operation.

Why else would someone file a complaint?

Anonymous tips usually have some basis in fact.

Chad sees it too. His smile returns, sharp and satisfied. “The truth has a way of coming out, doesn’t it?”

“What truth?” Brett demands, but Chad’s already turning away.

“Enjoy explaining to everyone why their New Year’s breakfast got canceled,” Chad says over his shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll understand it wasn’t your fault.”

He walks back to his car with a swagger.

Even with Brett standing beside me like a protective wall, even with Margaret muttering about spite and lies, I can feel the crowd’s energy shifting.

They’re hungry. They’re disappointed. And they’re starting to wonder if maybe, possibly, there really was something wrong with our food.

“Folks,” Mom calls out, trying to salvage the situation. “I’m sure this constitutesa misunderstanding?—”

“Of course it does,” Margaret adds firmly. “Anyone can see these young people run a clean operation.”

But doubt spreads like a virus. Once it starts, good intentions can’t stop it. I watch faces in the crowd, see questions forming. The careful distance people put between themselves and our suddenly-suspicious food truck.

Brett takes my hand, squeezing gently. “We’ll figure this out.”

I want to believe him. I want to lean into his strength and let him fix this like he fixed the coffee machine and the wobbly table and every other problem. But this isn’t something that can be solved with the right tools and steady hands.

This is our reputation and future. Everything we’ve worked for, unraveling in front of fifty witnesses.

“I know you will,” Dad says, appearing at my other side. “This is a setback.”

A setback. Right. The kind of setback that destroys small businesses before they can get started. The kind that makes people remember your name for all the wrong reasons.

“We should probably start packing up,” I say quietly, my voice sounding strange and distant. “Since we can’t serve anything.”

Brett’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t over.”

But it feels over. Standing here watching Chad’staillights disappear, surrounded by disappointed faces and whispered doubts, it feels very, very over.

The beach walkers begin to disperse, some heading to their cars, others walking toward town to find breakfast elsewhere. A few stop to offer words of support, but I can see the wariness in their eyes now. The questions they’re too polite to ask.

What if the complaint was justified?

What if we really were cutting corners?

What if they almost got food poisoning from our “unsafe” operation?

“Amber.” Brett’s voice pulls me back to the moment. “Look at me.”

I do, and there’s something fierce and determined there that makes my chest tight.

“We’re going to fight this,” he says. “Whatever it takes. But right now, we need to focus on damage control.”