Page 37 of Cooking Up My Comeback

He names a number that’s actually higher than what I was making at the diner. My legs go a little weak.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Plus, once we open, you’ll draw a full manager’s salary. I looked up the regional averages and added twenty percent because you’re going to be good at this.”

The relief that floods through me is so intense I have to lean against the demolished wall for support. But there’s something else too—disappointment that he’s being so coldly practical about everything.

“I was lying awake last night trying to figure out how to make the unemployment benefits stretch until we opened. I was mentally calculating whether I could sell plasma.”

He winces slightly. “You should have asked sooner.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was just in this for the money.”

“I know you’re not. That’s exactly why you deserve to be paid properly for what you’re bringing to this partnership.”

Partnership. The word feels sterile somehow, like he’s deliberately keeping distance between us.

I take a shaky breath, feeling like I can finally exhale properly for the first time in weeks. But there’s still one more fear clawing at my chest.

“What if this gets complicated?” I ask quietly. “What if mixing business with... whatever this is between us... what if it ruins both?”

Brett goes very still, his expression shuttering. “What are you asking, Amber?”

“I’m asking if you’ve thought about what happens when your business partner is also someone you look at like...” I gesture helplessly between us. “Like you looked at me yesterday.”

“How did I look at you?”

“Like you wanted to do more than just build a restaurant together.”

We stare at each other across the construction debris, and I can see him building walls in real time.

“You’re reading too much into things,” he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. “This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.”

The words hit like a slap. “Right. Of course. Business.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Professional boundaries?”

“I...” I flounder, because he’s throwing my own concerns back at me, but hearing him dismiss whateverspark exists between us feels worse than I expected. “I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“We are. Business partners. That’s it.”

His tone is so final, so cold, that I almost want to argue with him. Almost want to point out that business partners don’t usually look at each other the way he was looking at me yesterday. But his expression is locked down tight, all grumpiness and professional distance.

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play this, I can be professional too.

“Good,” I say brightly, because if he wants to pretend there’s nothing between us, I’ll show him just how sunny and uncomplicated I can be. “Then it’s settled. We’re business partners building a restaurant together. Nothing personal about it at all.”

“Right.”

“Great! So when do we start?”

Something flickers across his face—annoyance, maybe, or frustration. Good. Let him be grumpy about my relentless positivity.

“Today, if you want. I was about to start demolition on the kitchen wall.”

“Perfect! I love demolition. Very therapeutic.”

He hands me safety glasses, work gloves, and a sledgehammer that’s heavier than it looks. “Your job is to take out this wall. Just watch out for electrical wires.”