Page 75 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Probably,” I agree, but neither of us moves to step away.

“Brett?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For today. For being patient with me while I figured out what I wanted.”

“Thank you for figuring it out.”

She reaches up to brush her thumb across my bottom lip, and I have to resist the urge to kiss her again. “Drive safe, okay?”

“You too.”

I watch her get in her car and drive away, her taillights disappearing around the curve toward home. But this time, instead of feeling like an ending, it’s like a beginning.

Because we are partners in every sense that matters now. Business partners, sure. But also something more. Something that’s worth the risk of staying, worth the possibility of building a life instead of just a project.

Something worth everything.

SEVENTEEN

AMBER

Ipush through my front door, still processing whatever happened between Brett and me on that ferry dock. The house smells like an afternoon supervised by a seventeen-year-old—microwave popcorn, craft supplies, and something that might be Play-Doh mixed with pure chaos.

“I’m home!” I call out, dropping my bag on the hallway table.

“Mom!” Mason barrels around the corner wearing what appears to be every pirate accessory we own. His construction paper hat sits sideways over one eye, and he’s brandishing a pool noodle like a sword. “Tally let us build a fort, and I’m Captain Goldfish!”

“Captain Goldfish?”

“Because I found all the treasure.” He opens his palm to reveal a handful of actual Goldfish crackers.

“Very impressive treasure hunting. Where are the others?”

“Crew’s fishing off the back porch. He says real pirates need to know how to catch their own food.” Mason delivers this with complete seriousness. “And Tally’s in the kitchen making something that smells like Grandma Pearl’s house.”

I follow the scent of simmering broth to find Tally stirring a pot with the intense focus of someone determined to prove teenagers can handle real responsibility. Flour dusts her dark hair, and she’s got that crease between her eyebrows that means she’s following a recipe to the letter.

“Chicken and dumplings?” I ask.

“Found Grandma Pearl’s recipe card in your tin.” She doesn’t look up from her stirring. “Figured we needed actual food instead of whatever the boys were planning to live on.” A pause. “How was your business trip?”

“Educational.”

“Uh-huh.” She tastes the broth with a wooden spoon. “And Brett?”

The question catches me off guard. “What about Brett?”

“You look different. Like when you find a twenty-dollar bill in an old jacket pocket.”

Before I can unpack that particular observation, Crew appears in the doorway with his fishing rod and atackle box that’s nearly as big as he is.

“Mom! Look!” He holds up his phone, showing me a photo of a small striped bass. “Eight inches, but I threw him back. The guy at the bait shop says you measure respect by what you release, not what you keep.”

“That’s good wisdom. And excellent form in that photo.”

“Dad always made me keep everything for pictures.” He says this matter-of-factly, without bitterness, which somehow makes it worse. “Even the little ones that were supposed to go back.”