Page 12 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“To who?” Hazel asks like she’s already spotted the flaw in my plan. “Someone who’ll turn it into another tourist trap with a menu full of frozen fish sticks and plastic atmosphere?”

I wince. She’s not wrong. This town has lost most of its local restaurants over the years. The places that served food made by people who actually lived here, who knew their customers’ names and how they liked their coffee.

“You know what this place really needs?” I say, looking around the space that’s equal parts potential and disaster. “Someone who understands food service operations. All my experience is residential and retail—I know how to wire a kitchen, but I have no clue how to design workflow for the dinner rush.”

“Right,” Hazel says, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. “Someone who knows the business side.”

And there it is. The direction this conversation is heading like a storm front moving in.

“Don’t,” I warn, recognizing the look that’s passed between them. It’s the same look they get when they’re plotting to improve my life whether I want it improved or not.

“Don’t what?” Hazel asks with the innocent expression of someone who’s definitely not innocent.

“Whatever you’re thinking. I can see you thinking it.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, “you might want to talk to someone who actually knows the restaurant business. Someone local.”

My chest does this annoying thing whenever anyone mentions local restaurant expertise, because there’s really only one person in Twin Waves who fits that description.

“You mean Amber,” I say, because pretending I don’t know what she’s getting at isn’t fooling anyone.

“I mean someone with experience,” Hazel says diplomatically. “Someone who knows the local suppliers, the seasonal patterns, what works in this market.”

Jack snorts from his position at the increasingly unstable bar. “Just say what you mean, Hazel. Brett should talk to Amber because she’s talented and he’s been making moon eyes at her for months.”

“I don’t make moon eyes,” I protest.

“You make something,” Jack says. “Whatever youcall that face you get when someone mentions her name.”

The truth is, I have been thinking about Amber more than is smart for a guy who’s spent the last few years keeping things simple. There’s something about the way she moves through a kitchen, the way she makes people feel welcome, the way she turns feeding people into something that matters.

She’s rooted here. Connected to this place and these people in ways I’ve never let myself be connected anywhere. Which should make her exactly the wrong person for someone like me to be thinking about.

Instead, she feels like... trouble. The kind that makes you forget why you usually keep moving.

Which is a thought I’m definitely not ready to examine.

“If I’m serious about this restaurant concept,” I say carefully, “I should probably talk to someone who knows the business side. Equipment requirements, health department regulations, staffing needs.”

“So talk to her,” Hazel says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I can’t just?—”

“Why not?” Jack interrupts, still dusting himself off as though he’s been caught in a flour explosion. “She needs work. You need expertise. Seems straightforward.”

If only it were that simple. If only I could ignore thevoice in my head that sounds suspiciously like panic, reminding me that caring about places and people is how you end up with more to lose than you can afford.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“How?” Hazel asks with the persistence of someone who’s made a career out of managing complicated people.

I could explain about the careful distance I’ve maintained for years. About how I’ve gotten good at fixing things and moving on before anyone gets too attached. About how partnership sounds dangerously close to permanence, and permanence has never been my strong suit.

Instead, I pick up a loose piece of trim from the floor and turn it over in my hands. The wood is old, probably original to the building, worn smooth by decades of salt air. It could be restored with enough time and patience.

Some things can be fixed. Some things are worth saving.

I’m just not sure I’m one of them.