Page 1 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

ONE

AMBER

T he ancient coffee maker is dead again.

This machine has survived on desperate prayers and creative repairs since the nineties. No steam rises from the pot. The red light that usually blinks as my pre-dawn beacon of hope has surrendered entirely.

“Morning, sunshine.” I address the corpse of caffeination. “Perfect timing to give up on me.”

Six AM feels too early for an existential crisis, but my life missed that memo entirely.

I yank open the supply closet and grab the backup pot, the one that brews something resembling coffee if you squint and maintain low expectations.

Behind it sits a stack of requisition forms I’ve submitted for months, each stamped with the same response: Pending approval.

I’ve documented every failure, near-miss with the health department, and appliance surviving on hardware store fixes.

“You’re early again,” Bernice calls from the prep station, where she arranges bacon with the precision of someone who’s done this since my parents were kids. “Young folks these days, always rushing around.”

I’m forty-three and hardly qualify as “young folks,” but Bernice operates on her own timeline.

I hold up the backup pot. “Emergency backup day! Consider it a reliable friend who’s not quite as good at their job.”

She grimaces. “Better than nothing. Barely.”

The front bell jingles, and five tourists shuffle in wearing matching “Beach hair, don’t care” t-shirts. The woman in front studies our menu as though decoding ancient hieroglyphics, then asks if we have any gluten-free, dairy-free pancakes made with organic coconut flour.

I beam at her. “We have regular pancakes that haven’t personally offended anyone yet! They’re made with love, flour that comes from actual wheat, and a sprinkle of small-town charm.”

She doesn’t laugh. Tourists never do.

The bell jingles again, and Brett Walker walks in. He’s come here three mornings a week for eighteen months now, ever since he moved to Twin Waves and became the contractor everyone actually wants to hire. The one who shows up on time and finishes what he starts.

Brett heads straight for his usual stool at the counter, work boots scuffing the worn tile.

His Henley sleeves pushed up past the elbows, revealing forearms that could rebuild this entire place from the ground up.

That full beard and the medium brown hair with silver threading through the temples give him the appearance of someone who could fix anything.

Including the disasters that follow me around.

He settles onto the corner stool without so much as a glance in my direction, studying the menu as though he hasn’t ordered the exact same meal for eighteen months straight.

When our gazes finally meet, no smile appears, only that flat, assessing stare that suggests I’ve become another problem he doesn’t have time to solve.

“Morning, Brett!” I chirp. “Let me guess. Short stack, bacon, and eggs scrambled?”

He grunts something that might pass for acknowledgment. “Black coffee.”

“Oh, come on, you need actual food. You can’t survive on grumpiness alone, though you’re certainly giving it your best shot.”

“Coffee,” he repeats.

I pour him his usual mug. “How’s the backup pot treating you today? I prefer to consider it charmingly inadequate rather than completely useless. ”

He takes a sip, grimaces. “Your coffee tastes terrible.”

“And yet here you sit, three mornings a week, clockwork reliable. Either you’ve become a glutton for punishment or you secretly love my sunny disposition.”

“The other places taste worse.”

“Practically a love song from you.”

The hint of amusement flickers across his face before he scowls into his mug.

One of the tourists squints at us. “Do you two have a relationship?”

I laugh. “Oh no! Brett and I have what you’d call a committed diner relationship. I pretend his grumpy exterior doesn’t hide a marshmallow center, and he pretends my coffee doesn’t personally offend his taste buds.”

Brett’s sharp stare could cut glass. “I don’t pretend anything.”

“He’s my most predictable customer,” I clarify to the tourist. “Which in the food service industry means both blessing and reason to question his judgment.”

He raises his mug in what might charitably pass for a salute, though it resembles more of a potential projectile. “I have questionable judgment in a lot of areas.”

I power through the morning rush. The ticket printer jams, so I fix it with a fork and determination. The fryer starts making that ominous popping sound, and I adjust the temperature and add another line to my mental list of maintenance requests that will get stamped pending approval.

Controlled mayhem, but mine.

P ast eight, the door swings open. An older gentleman walks in carrying a clipboard with that particular energy that says, “I’m here to ruin your morning, and I brought paperwork.”

My stomach drops, but I keep my smile professional. I’ve expected this visit—not today specifically, but soon. The fryer incident last week, the freezer seal that’s been failing for months, the walk-in cooler that sounds as though it’s preparing for its own funeral.

“Welcome to the Seaside Spoon!” My voice stays steady. “What can I help you with?”

He flashes his badge. “Health inspection.”

What follows: twenty minutes of watching him document every flaw I’ve been reporting for ages. The freezer seal that’s appeared three times in my maintenance requests. The fryer that chooses this exact moment to pop loudly. The walk-in cooler that’s been running warm since Easter.

I trail behind him with my own clipboard—the one where I’ve meticulously documented every equipment failure, repair request, and attempt to get the owners to invest in basic functionality .

“You’re not exactly up to code,” he says, scribbling notes.

“No, I’m not. I’ve been documenting these issues for months. The owners have been reluctant to approve necessary repairs.”

He glances at me, and for a moment, I catch something that might be sympathy mixed with frustration. “You’ve got detailed records. That’s... unusual.”

“I believe in documentation. When equipment fails, people get sick. I take that seriously, even when others don’t.”

He nods, clearly uncomfortable. “I can see you’re trying to work with what you’ve got here. But I’ll need to issue a temporary closure.”

He tears a sheet from his clipboard and hands it over. The paper feels heavier than it should.

“I’ve been running this place for six years. Every call-in covered, crisis managed, and health code followed to the letter with equipment that should have been replaced before I was hired.”

“You’ll need to close immediately. You have thirty days to address the violations.”

Brett still sits at his usual corner stool, fork halfway to his mouth.

He’s been here long enough to understand what this means—not only for me, but for the handful of locals who depend on this place for their morning routine.

His expression isn’t shock exactly, more processing information and connecting dots I wish he weren’t.

I turn to Bernice. “Shut it down.”

She sighs and wipes her hands on her apron, a gesture that contains forty years of watching places struggle and fail.

To the customers scattered throughout the dining room, I announce with as much dignity and cheer as I can muster, “If you could kindly box up your breakfast, the Spoon’s taking an unexpected break! We’ll be back better than ever soon!”

The tourists appear confused. The locals appear worried. Brett quietly finishes his last swallow, then slides the exact change onto the counter—no tip this time, only the cost of his meal down to the penny. When our gazes meet, he stands.

He pauses at the door and glances back. “You’ll land on your feet. This place was a health hazard anyway,” he mutters.

Before I can respond, he’s gone.

Of all the people to witness this moment, it had to be him.

Thirty days to address violations. The words echo in my head as I lock the door behind the last customer.

Thirty days sounds generous until you remember that I’ve been submitting repair requests for over a year.

The owners have ignored every single one—why would they suddenly open their wallets now?

The math remains simple: no income starting today, and probably no job to return to. Even if by some miracle they fix everything, they’ll probably blame me for the closure and find a reason to let me go anyway. I’ve witnessed it happen before.

I’m not temporarily unemployed. I’m starting over.

B y four in the afternoon, I’m balanced somewhere between a migraine and a full-body emotional collapse. I walk through the front door of my house carrying groceries that might be the last I buy for a while. The scent of peanut butter, crayon wax, and something unmistakably citrusy hits me.

“Tally?” I call out. “Why does it smell citrusy in here?”

“Mason tried to pour himself juice when I was helping Crew with his fishing tackle box.”

I sigh and set the groceries on the table while Tally appears to help.

She’s seventeen and has been my right hand through everything—the divorce, the job juggling, the constant scramble to keep our little family afloat.

She shouldn’t have to be this responsible, but she handles it with grace that breaks my heart and fills me with pride in equal measure.

In the kitchen, Crew, my nine-year-old, sits surrounded by fishing lures and a half-organized tackle box that appears to have exploded across the table.

“Are those my good tweezers?”

He doesn’t glance up from his careful sorting. “I needed something pointy for the tiny hooks. Don’t worry, I cleaned them first.”

Mason, my four-year-old, zips past wearing nothing but dinosaur underwear and a Batman cape, yelling, “I’m the juice monster!” while waving a spatula.

I kneel to assess the orange juice situation—it’s worse than I thought, involving what appears to be an entire container’s worth of citrus carnage?—