Page 49 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Well?” I ask.

“He’s terrible at cornhole,” Dad says. “Absolutely hopeless. But he asked good questions about Crew’s fishing techniques. And when Mason started getting cranky about losing, Brett redirected him instead of getting frustrated.”

“And?”

“And he’s either very patient or very smart about kids. Or both.”

Dad adjusts his chili ribbon, watching Brett let Crew demonstrate the proper cornhole stance again. “Question is whether that’s enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“For whatever this is turning into.” Dad’s voice is gentle but direct. “Because it’s turning into more than a business partnership, whether you’re ready to admit it or not.”

“You should go enjoy the festival,” Brett says, appearing at my elbow and wiping his hands on a dish towel with the efficiency of someone who wants this social interaction over as quickly as possible. “I can handle cleanup. Take your family, get some of thatquestionable funnel cake, let the kids win some goldfish they don’t know how to keep alive.”

“Are you sure? We’re partners?—”

“We’re partners, which means I can handle an hour of wiping down tables while you go be a mom instead of a chef for a minute.”

There’s something in his tone that’s almost sharp, like he’s drawing a clear line between work and family time.

“You don’t have to be so grumpy about it,” I say, trying to keep things light.

“I’m not grumpy. I’m practical. Family time should be family time.”

“Right. Heaven forbid personal and professional should ever mix.”

He gives me a look that says we both know how complicated that gets, and I feel heat creep up my neck.

Mom’s already gathering the kids, and Tally’s brightened considerably at the prospect of festival exploration. “Face painting first,” she announces with the authority of someone who’s clearly been planning our itinerary. “Then we hit the craft booths before the good stuff gets picked over.”

Dad’s eyeing the chili cook-off with the intensity of a man on a mission.

“Go,” Brett says again, more gently this time. “That’s an order from your business partner.”

“Fine, but if anyone asks for our crab cake recipe?—”

“I’ll tell them it’s a family secret, and they’ll have to wait for the restaurant to open.”

I untie my apron, suddenly feeling lighter but also more exposed, like I’m stepping away from the safety of work mode into territory that feels less defined.

“Thanks,” I say, then immediately wonder if that sounds too grateful for what should be a normal partnership courtesy.

“Don’t mention it. Just... try to have fun. You’ve been wound up like a spring all day.”

The observation stings because it’s accurate. “I have not been wound up.”

“You reorganized our condiment station three times in an hour.”

“That’s called efficiency.”

“That’s called stress cleaning.” He almost smiles. “Go enjoy yourself, Bennett. The propane burners will survive without your supervision.”

Strings of pennant banners flap lazily overhead as we make our way down the main festival strip. The air smells like kettle corn, fried dough, and cider. Booths line both sides with hand-painted signs boasting everything fromLocal HoneytoCustom Pet Portraits.

“Face painting!” Mason shouts, tugging my hand. “I want a dragon!”

“Can I get a fish?” Crew asks, still clutching his festival lobster.