Page 146 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Now we go home,” she says, looking at the award in her hands like she still can’t quite believe it’s real. “We go back to our restaurant, our family, our life. And we keep doing what we love.”

“Together?”

“Always together.”

Later, much later, after the after-parties and the interviews and the endless photos, I walk Amber back to her hotel room. She sets the Emmeline Grant Award on the dresser and stares at it like it might disappear if she looks away.

“Any regrets?” I ask, loosening my tie while she studies her reflection in the mirror.

“About what?”

“About choosing the quiet life. The small town. The local restaurant instead of the celebrity chef track.”

She turns to look at me, still radiant even with her makeup slightly smudged and her hair escaping from its elegant style.

“Are you kidding?” she says. “Brett, a year ago, I was unemployed and hiding from my ex-husband’s lawyers. Tonight I won an Emmeline Grant Award, and I’m engaged to the man of my dreams. In what universe is this not everything I could possibly want?”

“The universe where you could have your own TV show and cookbook deals and restaurants in major cities.”

“I don’t want restaurants in major cities. I want our restaurant, in our town, serving our people.” She moves closer, reaching up to finish loosening my tie. “I want Sunday dinners with my kids and morning coffee with you and customers who know our names. I want the life we’re building together.”

“Even if it means staying small?”

“Especially if it means staying us.” She kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of promises about the future we’re choosing together.

When we break apart, she’s wearing that secret smile that makes my heart forget how to beat properly.

“Besides,” she adds with a grin, “who says we have to stay small forever? Maybe next year we’ll open a second location. Maybe we’ll write that cookbook. Maybe we’ll take over the entire East Coast with Grandma Pearl’s recipes and your organizational systems.”

“Now that,” I say, pulling her closer, “sounds like a plan.”

“A good plan?”

“The best plan.”

Outside our window, Chicago glitters in the distance, full of possibilities and dreams and other people’s ambitions. But inside this room, holding the woman I love and celebrating everything we’ve worked for, we’ve already won what matters most.

Tomorrow we’ll go home to Twin Waves, to TheSalty Pearl and the life we’ve built with love, stubbornness, and Grandma Pearl’s recipes.

Last summer, I thought happiness was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Turns out it was an investment I couldn’t afford not to make.

And it’s going to be perfect. Not because it’s easy or simple or guaranteed, but because it’s ours.

All of it. Forever.

EPILOGUE

MICHELLE

The demolition notice arrives on the most beautiful October afternoon Twin Waves has ever seen, which proves the universe has a twisted sense of timing and possibly a degree in dramatic irony.

I’m hosting book club in my apartment above the coffee shop, surrounded by the kind of autumn light that makes everything look like a Thomas Kinkade painting had a baby with a Pottery Barn catalog. The maple trees outside have turned into nature’s victory lap, all amber and crimson glory, while I serve pumpkin spice lattes that I’m convinced could solve world peace if deployed strategically.

“Okay, ladies,” Hazel announces, settling into my oversized armchair. “Let’s talk aboutThe Hating Game. Who wants to start with why enemies-to-lovers is basically the holy grail of romance tropes?”

“Because it’s the only scenario where arguing with someone counts as foreplay,” Jessica says, curled up on my couch with her perfectly highlighted copy. She’s made color-coded notes in the margins, because apparently she approaches romance novels like academic research.

“I prefer to think of it as advanced relationship negotiations,” Amber adds from her spot on the floor, where she’s surrounded by enough throw pillows to stock a small boutique. “Plus, the sexual tension is so thick you could serve it with whipped cream.”