Page 13 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“I don’t stay places,” I say finally. “That’s not really my thing. Learned the hard way that permanent plans have a way of falling apart when you least expect it.”

“Says who?” Jack asks.

“Says my entire track record. Five years as a Marine officer, then sixteen years of civilian contracting jobs. I fix things andmove on. It’s what I know.”

“People change,” Hazel says softly. “Sometimes they just need a reason to.”

I’m about to explain that some people are built for staying and some people are built for leaving, and I’ve always been firmly in the second category, when my foot catches on a loose floorboard. I stumble forward, arms windmilling like I’m trying to flag down aircraft, and somehow manage to knock over the paint can I’d left balanced on the windowsill.

White primer explodes across the floor in a chalky tidal wave, splattering my boots and creating abstract art I definitely didn’t plan. The can bounces once, twice, then settles into its own puddle with what I swear sounds like satisfaction.

“Graceful,” Jack observes.

“I meant to do that,” I say, staring at the mess that’s somehow managed to coat everything within a six-foot radius. “It’s called... distressed flooring. Very rustic.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Hazel asks, not even trying to hide her laughter.

I grab some rags from my toolbox and start cleaning up the paint, which has apparently decided my jeans and work boots needed a makeover. The primer is the industrial-strength kind that sticks to everything, including dignity.

“You know,” Hazel says, watching me crawl around with paint-soaked rags, “you could always ask foradvice. Professional consultation. Nothing complicated.”

My hands are still on the rag. “Professional consultation.”

“Mmm-hmm. About restaurant operations. Kitchen design. What the community actually wants instead of what developers think tourists want.”

I sit back on my heels, looking around the space. The paint mess actually improves the overall aesthetic, which tells you something about the current state of things. But underneath all the decay and questionable life choices, the bones are solid. The view is spectacular. The location is perfect.

It could be something special. With the right person’s input, it could be exactly what this town needs.

“That’s... not a terrible idea,” I admit grudgingly.

“I have my moments,” Hazel says with a grin that suggests she knows exactly how this conversation is going to end.

The thing is, they’re not wrong. I do need someone who understands the business side. Someone who knows this community and what it’s missing. Someone who could help me figure out if this crazy project has any chance of becoming something worthwhile.

And if that someone happens to be Amber Bennett... well, that’s just practical planning. Professional consultation. Nothing more complicated than getting expert advice.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

“I could ask,” I say slowly, testing the words like I’m checking the stability of a questionable beam. “About the business side. Restaurant operations.”

“You could,” Hazel agrees, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Purely professional,” I add, mostly for my own benefit.

“Absolutely,” Jack says with a straight face that doesn’t fool anyone.

The problem is, even thinking about asking Amber for help makes my chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to hope. And hope has always been my weakness. Hope is what makes you stay when you should go. Hope is what makes you care when caring is the fastest way to lose everything that matters.

But maybe—just maybe—hope is also what makes you brave enough to try something that could actually work.

After Jack and Hazel leave—Jack still shaking dust out of his hair and Hazel wearing that satisfied expression of someone who’s successfully planted seeds in someone else’s garden—I’m alone with the building and the growing certaintythat I’m about to do something either very smart or very stupid.

Probably both.

I spend another hour cleaning up the paint mess and staring at that photograph from 1978. All those people looking like they belong exactly where they are. Like they’ve found their place in the world and decided to stay.

I’ve never been good at staying. But maybe I’ve never had the right reason to try.