Page 65 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Deal.”

She smiles then, the first real smile I’ve seen since Chad walked in. “You realize this means we’re about to become the talk of Twin Waves.”

“Good. Let them talk.”

“You say that now, but wait until Grandma Hensley starts offering relationship advice at the grocery store.”

“I can handle Grandma Hensley.”

“Famous last words.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe we’re about to make everything more complicated than it needs to be. Butlooking at her in this space we’ve built together, I realize I’d rather have complicated with her than simple with anyone else.

Even if it means dealing with Chad’s corporate buzzwords and the entire town’s opinions about our business.

Some things are worth the complications.

FIFTEEN

AMBER

Brett’s leaning over the stove like a man on a mission, squinting at the recipe card in his left hand while stirring the grits with his right. I’m elbow-deep in flour even though we’re not baking anything, because apparently making buttermilk biscuits was a last-minute add-on.

Which means there’s a fine dusting of white powder over the counter, the floor, the kids’ step stool, and at least half of Brett’s shirt.

“Why did I think I could cook two things at once?” I mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of my face. It immediately sticks to my forehead. “I’ve worked in food service for years. This should be easier.”

Brett glances over with that half-smilehe gets when he’s trying not to laugh at me. “You’re doing great. VeryTop Chefmeets Southern grease fire.”

I scoop up a pinch of flour and flick it in his direction. He dodges like I’ve launched a grenade.

“Careful,” he says, trying to look stern and failing completely. “You’re gonna trigger the smoke alarm again.”

“Oh, like that was my fault.”

“Someone forgot to turn the burner down.”

“That someone was you!”

“Can’t prove it.”

I shake my head and drop the biscuit dough onto the floured surface with more force than necessary. The satisfying slap it makes helps my mood considerably.

“You know,” I say, rolling out the dough with perhaps excessive enthusiasm, “when I invited you over to test recipes, I pictured something a little more... controlled. And a lot less flour-stormy.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You had expectations?”

“I had hopes. Clearly misplaced.”

“Hey, I’m following the recipe exactly. If your grits turn out weird, that’s on Grandma Pearl.”

“Don’t you dare blame my grandmother for your inability to follow simple instructions.”

He turns back to the stove, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “These actually look edible.”

I peek over his shoulder. The shrimp are perfectly pink and the grits are creamy without being lumpy. “They look better than edible. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’ll save the victory lap for when we see if they taste like food.”