Page 126 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“He can’t do anything,” I say quietly. “Not here, not with this many witnesses.”

“Can’t he?” Amber’s voice tightens. “He’s here, at our grand opening, making sure everyone knows he still has power over my life.”

She’s not wrong. Every conversation in the dining room has shifted slightly. People are glancing over atChad’s table, whispering behind their hands, waiting to see what happens next. Our celebration has become the Chad Peterson Show with special guest appearances by his oversized ego.

“Mom!” Mason’s voice cuts through the tension as he races over from the corner table where my mom—who drove up from Georgia for our opening—has been keeping the kids entertained. “This lady wants to know if you made the fish, and I told her you made everything because you’re the best cook in the world!”

The lady in question—a food blogger from Wilmington—beams at Mason’s endorsement. “Your son is quite the salesman,” she tells Amber. “I’d love to hear about your inspiration for the menu.”

Amber smiles proudly. “Thank you. The menu is inspired by my grandmother’s recipes and local fishing traditions.”

She slips into professional mode, explaining our sourcing and preparation methods while Mason stands proudly beside her. But tension shows in her shoulders, the way her gaze keeps darting back to Chad’s table.

“Brett.” Crew appears at my elbow, his expression lighting up. “Dad’s here! Did you see? He came to our opening!”

My heart sinks at the excitement in his ten-year-old voice. “Yeah, buddy, I saw.”

“Should I go say hi? Mom’s been really busy withthe kitchen, but maybe now that Dad’s here, we could all sit together for a minute.”

This kid has no idea what’s really happening. To him, his father showing up at their restaurant opening is a good thing.

“Let’s see how busy your mom is first,” I tell him gently. “Big opening nights can be pretty crazy.”

“Okay. But I want to show him the fishing displays. I helped choose which photos to use, and there’s one of Grandpa’s boat that Dad might remember.”

Before I can respond, the sound of pots and pans crashing echoes from the kitchen, followed by what I can only describe as creative vocabulary that would make a sailor blush.

“Oh no,” Amber mutters. “That’s Benji, our line cook. He’s been nervous all night.”

We rush toward the kitchen to find Benji standing in the middle of what appears to be a culinary crime scene. He’s somehow managed to get tangled in the hanging pot rack while trying to reach for a sauté pan. Pots are scattered across the floor like metallic confetti, and Benji is suspended at an awkward angle, one foot on the prep counter, one hand gripping a ladle like it’s his lifeline.

“Don’t move!” Tally calls from the pastry station, waving a piping bag like she’s directing traffic. At eighteen, she’s become our head pastry chef, and her chocolate lava cakes have already earned three marriageproposals tonight from customers who’ve never even seen her face.

“I wasn’t planning on moving,” Benji replies through gritted teeth. “I’m currently being held hostage by kitchen equipment.”

“How did you even—” Tally starts, then shakes her head. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I’m too busy making sure my soufflés don’t collapse from the sound effects.”

“I reached for the pan, and the hook caught my apron. I tried to duck, and somehow physics decided to have a laugh at my expense.”

Bernice, our prep cook, who followed Amber from the diner, pokes her head around the corner. “Need me to get the first aid kit? Because this looks like it’s going to end in Band-Aids.”

“Just my pride needs medical attention,” Benji calls out.

Amber and I exchange glances. Our grand opening kitchen is being held together by hope, determination, and apparently very aggressive cookware.

“Should we call the fire department?” I ask.

“Only if you want the headline to read ‘Local Restaurant Opens, Line Cook Requires Rescue Operation,’” Benji says. “My dignity’s already dead. Let’s not make it public.”

Tally manages to untangle him without bringing down the entire pot rack, though not without Benjiacquiring several new bruises and what appears to be a ladle-shaped dent in his chef’s hat.

“Crisis averted,” Benji announces, straightening his hat with wounded pride. “Nobody saw anything.”

“Half the dining room heard the crash,” Amber points out.

“Details.” Benji waves a hand dismissively. “I’m calling it ‘enthusiasm for culinary excellence.’”

“Just don’t let it happen again,” Tally says, returning to her dessert station. “I’ve got six orders of crème brûlée that need torching, and I can’t have you creating percussion sections while I’m working with fire.”