Page 117 of Cooking Up My Comeback

I kiss him again, long and sweet and full of promises about facing whatever comes next as a team. When we break apart, we’re both smiling.

“So,” I say, surveying the security equipment scattered across my porch. “How many cameras does one small cottage actually need?”

“According to my research? All of them.”

“Very thorough.”

“I’m a thorough guy.”

“You’re my thorough guy.”

“Yeah,” he says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. “I am.”

Because some things are worth fighting for.

And this man, this life, this love we’re building together?

This is definitely worth the fight.

TWENTY-SIX

BRETT

As I pull into the parking lot of The Salty Pearl, morning light glints off the pristine windows.

A month has passed since I installed those security cameras at Amber’s house. Permits have cleared, construction crews finished on schedule, and Chad’s threats faded to background noise. Amber and I found our rhythm as business partners and something deeper.

Valentine’s Day came and went with a quiet dinner at her kitchen table after the kids went to bed—us talking about menu changes and Spring Break opening strategies while sharing a bottle of wine. She fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, and I knew we’d turned some invisible corner.

Now Spring Break season is a week away, and we’re ready.

“You’re early,” Amber says as I walk through the front door, but she’s smiling. She has that glow she gets when everything’s falling into place.

“Wanted to do one final walkthrough before the crew arrives for kitchen prep.”

She nods toward the dining room. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

I step into the space we’ve dreamed about for months, and my chest tightens.

It’s perfect.

The main dining room feels warm and welcoming, with tables made from weathered wood Jack sourced from an old fishing boat. The walls showcase our planned fishing community displays: black and white photos of Twin Waves’ fleet through the decades, rotating exhibits featuring different families’ traditions. Mrs. Sanders’ knitting club has a corner dedicated to their monthly meetings, complete with a bulletin board covered in colorful announcements.

The bar really gets me. Amber designed it to resemble the bow of a fishing boat, complete with rope details and weathered wood. Behind it, shelves display local pottery and glassware from artists around town.

“What do you think?” Amber appears beside me, wiping paint from her hands.

“You’re going to change this town.”

“We’regoing to change this town,” she corrects,bumping my shoulder with hers in a way that makes me forget how words work.

I follow her into the kitchen, trying not to notice how her hair smells of vanilla. The space is gleaming and professional, with equipment that works and counters spacious enough for serious cooking. The walk-in cooler hums quietly, already stocked with local suppliers’ sample products.

“The health department gave us our final approval yesterday,” Amber says, running her hand along the stainless steel prep counter. “Perfect scores across the board.”

“And the liquor license?”

“Came through Tuesday. We’re officially legal to serve everything on our menu.” She does a little victory dance involving way too much hip action for my concentration levels.