Page 143 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Bring it on,” I say.

And I mean every word.

THIRTY-TWO

BRETT

Mid-September, I’m standing in the bathroom of the Emmeline Grant Culinary Foundation awards venue in Chicago, staring at myself in the mirror and trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The black suit fits perfectly. Amber insisted we both get something new for tonight, but I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. Six hours ago, we were in our kitchen in Twin Waves, going over prep lists and arguing about whether our newest server could handle the weekend rush without dropping something. Now we’re at one of the most prestigious culinary events in the country, and my fiancée is nominated for an award that could change our entire world.

Well, our entire world except what actually matters.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” comes a familiar voice from behind me.

I turn to see Jack adjusting his own tie in the mirror, looking annoyingly calm for someone who’s never been to anything fancier than a wedding reception.

“I might,” I admit. “This is slightly outside my comfort zone.”

“Really? Because you seem like the kind of guy who’s comfortable anywhere.”

“I’m comfortable with construction sites and permit offices and restaurants full of regular people eating good food. This?” I gesture toward the door, beyond which lies a ballroom full of celebrity chefs and food critics and people who probably use words like ‘molecular gastronomy’ in casual conversation. “This is Amber’s world. I’m the guy who makes sure the walk-in cooler doesn’t break down.”

“Nonsense,” Jack says bluntly, turning to face me. “You built that restaurant with her. Every piece of equipment, every design choice, every detail that makes it special—that’s your work too.”

“She’s the chef. She’s the talent.”

“And you’re the partner who made it possible for her talent to shine.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Stop selling yourself short. You belong here as much as she does.”

Before I can argue with him, the bathroom dooropens and Hazel peeks in, looking like she was born to coordinate fancy events.

“There you are,” she says. “Amber’s looking for you. Something about needing moral support and also someone to hold her purse because apparently evening gowns don’t come with practical pockets.”

“How’s she doing?” I ask, following them out into the hallway.

“Better than you, apparently,” Jack observes. “She’s in full chef mode: focused, determined, ready to take on the world. You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

We make our way back to the cocktail reception, and I spot Amber immediately. She’s wearing a deep emerald dress that makes her eyes look like sea glass, her hair swept up in an elegant style that showcases the graceful line of her neck. She’s talking to a group of food writers, gesturing animatedly with a champagne flute in one hand, and she looks absolutely radiant.

She also looks like she belongs here, which shouldn’t surprise me but somehow does. Less than two years ago, she was hiding in walk-in coolers having panic attacks about health inspectors. Tonight, she’s holding court with some of the most influential people in the food industry like she’s been doing it her whole life.

Because she has been, but she just didn’t realize it yet.

A year ago, I thought Amber Bennett was the most infuriatingly optimistic person I’d ever met. Tonight, watching her light up every conversation she enters, I realize her sunshine doesn’t just brighten rooms—it transforms them.

“She’s incredible,” I murmur, not really meaning to say it out loud.

“Yeah, she is,” Jack agrees. “And she chose you.”

“I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

“That too.”

I make my way over to her, weaving through conversations about farm-to-table philosophies and the future of Southern cuisine. When she sees me approaching, her whole face lights up with the kind of smile that makes my chest tight with love and pride.