Page 10 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

SEVEN

AMBER

T he smell of butter and lemon fills my kitchen, exactly what I need after today’s chaos. Between the boutique incident and that awkward beach encounter, I need to do work with my hands that makes sense and doesn’t involve Brett Walker’s unexpected kindness throwing me off balance.

So I make Grandma’s crab cakes recipe. The one that never fails to center me.

Mason zooms a toy dump truck across the tile while Crew builds what appears to be a Lego fortress designed to withstand alien invasion. Normal afternoon chaos that feels like exactly what I need.

“Mom, do crab cakes count as dinner or just fancy finger food?” Crew calls out.

“It can be both,” I say absentmindedly. I’m focused on Grandma’s recipe card—the one with the grease stain and her looping cursive fading at the edges. Use fresh crab if you want it to sing, and don’t forget the squeeze of lemon.

My fingers move by memory, but my heart aches a little. This kitchen still looks exactly like it did when I was twelve—the mint-green backsplash catching the afternoon light, untouched since Grandma picked it out in 1967. Some things belong to the past. Others still have more to give.

The screen door creaks, and Hazel breezes in holding a mason jar of sweet tea and wearing a smug expression that usually means she knows gossip I don’t.

“Hey, girl,” she says, kicking off her sandals. “How are your complicated feelings doing today?” She gives me a big cheesy grin.

I scoff. “You’re reading too much into everything.”

“Because I’m sitting on fresh intel.” She hops onto the counter. “Grandma Hensley saw the whole thing at the beach today.”

My hands pause on the crab mixture. “The whole what thing?”

“You in that teal swimsuit. Brett looking like his brain had short-circuited.”

I nearly drop the spatula. “What?”

“I quote: ‘Strong as an ox, that one. And completely smitten, though he’s too stubborn to admit it.’”

My face heats so fast I might spontaneously combust. “Grandma Hensley needs a hobby.”

“She’s got one. Matchmaking commentary. And she’s never wrong about chemistry.”

I groan and shove the tray into the oven. “It wasn’t like that. We just ran into each other.”

“And he just happened to help you with the boys’ sand castle like he’d been doing it his whole life?”

Actually, that part was pretty smooth. Brett had crouched down to Mason’s level and asked about the moat system like it was serious engineering. Crew had immediately launched into turtle migration patterns, and instead of looking glazed over, Brett had asked follow-up questions.

Most men run when Crew starts talking about sea creature reproduction cycles.

“Have you decided between the coffee shop and the restaurant partnership?” Hazel asks, switching gears.

“Michelle’s offer is safe. Steady hours, predictable income, no risk of losing everything I’ve worked for.”

“And Brett’s offer?”

“Exciting. Probably the chance of a lifetime.” I sigh. “Also completely terrifying.”

Hazel’s gaze lands on the recipe tin behind me. “Is that Grandma’s collection?”

I nod. “Pulled it down from the attic recently.”

She opens the tin with reverence. “I remember this. You used to cook here every summer when we were kids. You were twelve, but you could dice an onion better than my mom.”

I smile, soft and wistful. “This kitchen feels haunted in the best way.”

“You’re lucky you had her.”

“I am. But I miss her. Her and Grandpa. I know it’s been five years since she’s been gone, but some days it feels strange to be the only one left in this house.”

“You’re not alone. You’ve got your boys. And her recipes. And this kitchen that’s seen three generations of your family create magic.”

I glance at the faded photograph on the fridge. Grandma and Grandpa, sunburned and grinning after a day of fishing.

“I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

“Then we figure it out and try again. You don’t have to do everything alone anymore, Amber. That’s the point.”

She grabs a spoon and dips it into my aioli. Her eyes close, and she makes a sound like she’s having a religious experience.

“You really were meant to do this.”

For just a second, I let myself believe her.

A fter Hazel leaves, I get the boys fed, bathed, and tucked into bed. Mason’s snoring like a tiny bear, and Crew’s clutching his flashlight, whispering horseshoe crab facts to himself.

I stand in their doorway, watching them. There’s sand everywhere. Their beach bags are half-unpacked downstairs, and Mason probably smuggled home three shells and possibly a hermit crab. Crew’s got his fishing magazine tucked under his pillow—the same one Dad gave him last month.

But they’re safe. They’re happy. And today felt like a shift.

I head back to the kitchen to clean up. Grandma’s recipe card is still out, so I tuck it gently back into the tin, patting the lid like I’m tucking her memory in for the night.

This room has fed generations. It’s held grief and joy and laughter so loud it made the windows shake. Maybe it can hold one more dream.

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab my phone.

What do you say to someone who witnessed your debit card drama and then helped your kids build sand castles like he belonged there?

I settle on simple:

Me: Thank you for the flip-flops. And for being kind to the boys today.

The reply comes faster than expected :

Brett: They’re great kids. Mason’s got serious excavation skills.

I find myself smiling despite everything.

Me: He’s been perfecting his technique all summer! You should see his backyard archaeological dig.

Brett: Sounds dangerous.

Me: Only if you count three holes and one very confused earthworm as dangerous.

Brett: I’ve seen construction sites with less ambition.

There’s something dry about his humor that makes me want to poke at it.

Me: Crew knows more about marine biology than most college students too.

Brett: I noticed. Kid’s got strong opinions about crab habitats.

Me: He gets that from my dad. Give him five minutes, and he’ll explain why blue crabs are superior to Dungeness.

Brett: I’d rather hear your thoughts on crab cake recipes.

Warmth settles in my chest. He’s not just being polite.

Me: Now you’re talking my language. Grandma’s secret was the breadcrumb ratio.

Brett: Of course it was. Everything comes down to ratios.

Me: Spoken like a true contractor.

Brett: You say that like it’s a bad thing .

Me: Not bad. Just... practical. Methodical. Very serious.

Brett: I’m extremely serious.

I can practically see him scowling at his phone, which makes me grin.

Me: I can tell. You probably measure your coffee.

Brett: I do measure my coffee.

Me: Of course you do. Let me guess. You also iron your t-shirts?

Brett: What’s wrong with ironed t-shirts?

Me: Nothing! It’s very... civilized. Controlled. Very you.

Brett: You say that like it’s a character flaw.

Me: Not a flaw. Just different from someone who color-codes their spice rack by mood.

Brett: You color-code by mood?

Me: Only on Tuesdays.

There’s a pause, then:

Brett: I can’t tell if you’re joking.

Me: That’s part of my charm.

Brett: Is that what we’re calling it?

The teasing tone makes my stomach flutter.

Me: What would you call it?

Brett: Complicated.

There’s that word again. The one he said like it was dangerous.

Me: I prefer ‘delightfully unpredictable.’

Brett: Same thing .

Me: Not even close. Complicated sounds like a problem to solve. Unpredictable is an adventure.

Brett: I don’t like adventures.

Me: I know. That’s what makes this interesting.

Brett: What makes what interesting?

Me: This conversation. You being all grumpy and methodical, me being all sunshine and chaos. We’re like... opposites.

Brett: Opposites don’t always work.

Me: Sometimes they’re exactly what each other needs.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Brett: The restaurant idea. You really think it could work?

Me: You’re changing the subject.

Brett: I’m being practical.

Me: There’s that word again.

Brett: Answer the question, Bennett.

The way he texts my last name as though he’s half exasperated, half amused makes me grin.

Me: I think you could make anything work. But yes, I think we could build something remarkable.

Brett: We?

Me: Well, you’d handle all the serious, methodical parts. I’d handle the measuring of the ingredients.

Brett: That’s not exactly a traditional business model.

Me: The best things usually aren’t .

Brett: It would be a big risk.

Me: The biggest. I have to think about my boys. Their stability.

Brett: I wouldn’t expect anything else. That’s part of what makes you right for this.

Right. He thinks I’m right for this.

Me: I’m not right for anything. I burn grilled cheese and forgot to pack Crew’s inhaler last week.

Brett: You made crab cakes from memory today. You raised two incredible kids on your own. You kept a failing restaurant running for three years. Stop selling yourself short.

I blink at the screen. When’s the last time someone saw me like that? Not as a struggling single mom or a charity case, but as someone capable of remarkable things?

Me: How do you know I made crab cakes?

Brett: Lucky guess. Also, Hazel may have mentioned it when she stopped by the hardware store.

I laugh out loud in my empty kitchen.

Me: She’s a menace.

Brett: She’s protective. I respect that.

Me: She likes you too. Which is either a very good sign or means she’s lost her mind.

Brett: I’ll take either.

I should definitely say goodnight now. This conversation is moving into territory that feels less like business and more like... hope .

Me: I should let you go.

Brett: You should. But I’m not ready for this to end.

Me: The conversation?

Brett: Among other things.

My breath catches.

Me: Brett...

Brett: Too much?

Me: Maybe.

Brett: Should I back off?

Me: Don’t.

The word is out before I can stop it.

Brett: Don’t what?

Me: Don’t back off. Just... give me time to figure this out.

Brett: The restaurant or whatever this is between us?

Me: Both.

Brett: I can do that.