Page 141 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“It’s 7:30 in the morning!” I protest.

“And we brought our own coffee,” Michelle says cheerfully, carrying what appears to be a portable espresso setup. “Plus pastries from three different bakeries because we couldn’t decide which ones you’d like best.”

“Also,” Jack adds, looking slightly overwhelmed by the crowd he’s somehow leading, “the mayor wanted to stop by.”

“Mayor Waters?” Brett’s voice goes dangerously quiet. “As in, Penelope’s husband?”

“The same Mayor Waters,” Hazel confirms, “whoapparently had no idea what his wife was up to and is very interested in making amends. Also, he’s bringing a photographer from the town newspaper.”

Blood drains from my face. “A photographer? Looking like this?”

I gesture to my appearance—hair in a messy bun, wearing jeans and an old Salty Pearl t-shirt, probably sporting the kind of dark circles coming from a sleepless night of obsessing over Emmeline Grant nominations.

“You look beautiful,” Brett says quietly, and the sincerity in his voice makes my cheeks heat.

This man. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have noticed if I showed up to work covered in grease and exhaustion. Now he sees me at my most disheveled and calls me beautiful like he means it.

“I look like I’ve been up all night.”

“Which you have,” Tally points out helpfully. “I heard you pacing the hallway at 2 AM.”

There’s another commotion from the front as Michelle accidentally knocks over her bag of coffee beans while setting up her espresso station.

“Oh no,” she says, watching dark roasted beans scatter across the kitchen floor like caffeinated confetti. “I’m so sorry. They’re everywhere.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, trying not to laugh at the sight of my father carefully picking coffee beans out of his shirt pocket. “We’ll?—”

Mayor Waters chooses this moment to make hisentrance, followed by a photographer who immediately starts snapping pictures of our coffee bean disaster.

“Ms. Bennett!” Mayor Waters booms, apparently oblivious to the commotion around him. “Congratulations on your Emmeline Grant nomination! This is exactly the kind of positive attention Twin Waves needs!”

The photographer’s camera flashes as he captures what I’m sure will be a lovely shot of me standing in a kitchen covered in coffee beans, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt, and looking like I haven’t slept in a week.

“Thank you,” I manage, trying to kick coffee beans under the prep counter while maintaining some semblance of dignity.

“We’d love to get some shots of you in action,” the photographer says enthusiastically. “Maybe preparing one of your signature dishes?”

“Right now?” I squeak.

“The early morning light is perfect,” he insists. “Very authentic. Natural.”

“Authentic,” I repeat weakly, looking around at my family and friends who are all trying to help clean up coffee beans while pretending this is a perfectly normal way to celebrate an award nomination.

“I could make biscuits,” I offer. “Grandma Pearl’s recipe?”

“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims, already adjusting his camera settings.

Brett steps closer, his presence immediately calming my rising panic. “I’ll handle the cleanup crew,” he says quietly. “You focus on the biscuits.”

This is Brett in protector mode. Taking charge, solving problems, making sure I can handle what I need to handle without worrying about everything else. Six months ago, I would have bristled at anyone trying to manage my kitchen crisis. Now I’m grateful for his steady competence.

Twenty minutes later, I’m somehow managing to make biscuits while being photographed, interviewed by Mayor Waters, and surrounded by the most chaotically supportive crowd I’ve ever seen. Jessica’s appointed herself as my sous chef, Michelle’s handling coffee duties for everyone, and the kids have somehow turned coffee bean cleanup into a competitive sport.

“So tell me,” Mayor Waters says as the photographer captures me rolling out dough, “what does this nomination mean to you?”

I pause, my hands stilling on the rolling pin, and look around at this beautiful commotion. Brett’s helping Crew measure coffee beans “for scientific accuracy.” Michelle’s explaining proper coffee storage to Tally while somehow managing to sweep simultaneously. Hazel’s arranging the flowers she brought into a photogenic display while Mom quietly picks up the last of the scattered beans.

“It means,” I say slowly, “dreams actually do cometrue. Even when they come covered in coffee beans and surrounded by people who love you enough to show up at 7:30 AM to celebrate.”