Page 124 of Cooking Up My Comeback

Brett: Not afraid of anything when it comes to you.

My heart does the ridiculous fluttery action it’s been doing lately, and for once, I don’t try to talk myself out of it. I don’t analyze it or build walls around it or worry about what could go wrong.

I let myself feel it.

Maybe good events really are allowed to happen to me. Maybe I have to be brave enough to believe I deserve them.

When we arrive at The Salty Pearl, the sight takes my breath away. Brett has strung warm white lights around the entrance, and soft music drifts from inside.Through the windows, familiar faces are gathering—my parents, Brett’s mom, Jack and Hazel, and Jack’s parents.

It’s perfect. The kind of scene that makes you believe in dreams coming true, even when your heart feels fragile and hopeful.

When I spot Brett standing near the entrance in his navy button-down, appearing like he stepped out of every romantic dream I’ve ever had, my resolve dissolves.

“Mom,” Tally says as we climb out of the car, “Staring is weird.”

Embarrassing but accurate.

“I am not staring.”

“You are,” Crew agrees. “It’s obvious.”

“Can we focus on the restaurant, please?”

But as we walk toward the entrance, leaving an actual trail of sparkles on the sidewalk behind us like the world’s most extra breadcrumbs, Brett watches me. When our eyes meet across the distance, he smiles.

Not any smile. The smile saying he sees me—really sees me—covered in craft store carnage and still somehow considers me worth everything.

And for the first time all day, instead of panic, I feel something that might be pure joy.

The evening flows beautifully. Almost perfectly. Our friends and family fill thedining room with laughter and conversation, testing our menu and marveling at the fishing displays on the walls. Dad spends twenty minutes telling anyone who’ll listen about the photo of his grandfather’s boat from 1952. Mom tears up when she sees Grandma Rose’s recipe featured on a special display.

The kids race between tables, Mason proudly explaining to everyone that this is “his” restaurant and he’s the “official taste tester.” Crew demonstrates proper fishing knot techniques to Mrs. Sanders, who pretends to understand. Even Tally seems happy, taking pictures with her friends and posting them with captions like “My mom is basically a boss.”

I’m standing behind the bar, observing Brett effortlessly charm my father while simultaneously keeping an eye on Mason’s sugar intake, when my phone buzzes.

Chad.

My blood goes cold as I read the text:Hope tonight is going well. Still waiting for your answer. Don’t keep me waiting much longer.

“Everything okay?” Brett appears beside me, his hand warm on my lower back.

I show him the text, and his jaw tightens.

“He doesn’t get to ruin this,” Brett says quietly. “Not tonight.”

“But what if?—”

“No what-ifs. Survey this, Amber. Survey what you’ve created.”

The dining room is full of people I love, eating food I’ve prepared, celebrating something I’ve built from nothing.

Mason is teaching Ellen the proper way to eat fish and chips. “You have to make the ketchup into a little pool, see?”

Crew explains the difference between Pacific and Atlantic fishing techniques to my mother, who’s nodding along like it’s the most fascinating conversation she’s ever had.

This is real. This is mine. This is ours.

“I’m not giving him anything,” I say, the words feeling like a revelation. “Not twenty-five percent, not one dollar, not one more minute of my worry.”