Page 66 of Cooking Up My Comeback

I cut the dough into circles, trying not to notice how we keep bumping into each other in my small kitchen. How he automatically moves out of my way when I need the oven. How he rinses dishes without being asked.

It’s domestic in a way that should feel strange but doesn’t.

“Moment of truth,” I say, sliding the biscuits into the oven. “Want to taste-test while these bake?”

“Only if you promise not to judge my reactions.”

“No promises.”

He scoops a bite of grits onto a spoon and tastes it. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Good?” I ask.

He turns to me, expression serious. “I think I just understood why people write poetry about food.”

I snort. “That’s the butter talking.”

“It’s always the butter. Your grandmother was a genius.”

“She’d approve of you. You take butter seriously.”

“I take everything about this seriously.”

There’s an intensity in his tone that wasn’t there a minute ago.

I lean against the counter, suddenly aware that we’realone in my kitchen at nine o’clock at night, covered in flour, talking about butter like it’s philosophy.

“Brett—”

The timer dings, cutting off whatever I was about to say. Probably for the best.

“Biscuits,” I announce unnecessarily, turning to the oven.

They come out golden brown and slightly lopsided, but smelling like heaven. Brett leans over my shoulder to get a better look.

“They’re perfect,” he says, his voice closer to my ear than I expected.

I glance up at him. “You sure you’re not just saying that because you’re hungry?”

“I’d eat shoe leather right now if you prepared it properly.”

“Stop,” I say, laughing. “You’re going to give me a big head about my cooking.”

“Too late. I’m already planning to put these on the menu.”

We set the food on the kitchen table—mismatched plates, old silverware, and mason jars for sweet tea. It’s not fancy, but it feels right. Like the kind of meal you’d remember years later.

Brett pours the tea and sits across from me. “For the record, if this shrimp and grits makes it to the final menu, I want naming rights.”

“What, like ‘Brett’s Butter Bomb?’”

He nearly chokes on his tea. “Please no.”

“Too bad. It’s going on the chalkboard.”

“You do that, and I’m naming the next dish after you. ‘Amber’s Accidentally Amazing Chowder.’”

“That’s not even alliterative.”