Page 12 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

EIGHT

brETT

I ’m elbow-deep in plumbing when my phone buzzes against the sawdust-covered floor.

For a second, I consider ignoring it. The water line under the prep station has been fighting me all morning, and I’m pretty sure it’s developing a personal vendetta against my wrench collection.

But then I see Amber’s name on the screen, and suddenly, the stubborn pipe can wait.

Amber: Can I come see the place? Before I give you an answer?

I stare at the message for approximately three seconds before my thumbs take over my brain.

Me: Now?

Amber: If you’re not busy.

I look around the construction zone that currently passes for a restaurant.

There’s drywall dust coating every surface, exposed electrical wiring hanging from the ceiling like technological spaghetti, and what appears to be a family of mice who’ve made themselves comfortable in the corner booth.

Not exactly the ideal conditions for impressing someone with your vision.

But she wants to see it. Which means she’s seriously considering the partnership. Which means I need to stop overthinking and start hoping.

And hope has always been my weakness.

Me: Address is 847 Ocean Drive. Side door’s unlocked. Fair warning: it looks like a disaster movie set.

Amber: Perfect. I specialize in disasters.

Of course she does. Little Miss Sunshine probably thinks disasters are just opportunities in disguise.

Twenty minutes later, I hear the creak of the side door followed by footsteps on the warped hardwood. I’m still under the prep station, wrestling with a pipe that’s apparently made of pure spite, when her voice drifts across the space.

“You weren’t joking, huh?”

I slide out from under the counter, probably looking like I’ve been wrestling bears instead of plumbing fixtures. Amber’s standing in the doorway, and for a second, I forget why getting involved with optimistic women is a terrible idea.

She’s wearing dark jeans and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, but a few strands have escaped to frame her face.

She looks professional and practical and like she’s about to find something positive to say about this disaster zone.

Which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people in trouble.

“That good or that bad?” I ask, getting to my feet and trying to brush the worst of the dust off my shirt.

“Both?” She steps farther into the room, turning slowly to take in the whole space. “It’s worse than I imagined. And also... better somehow.”

I follow her gaze, trying to see it through her eyes. The dining area’s been gutted down to the studs. The kitchen is a skeleton of what it could be. The windows facing the ocean are salt-stained and probably haven’t been cleaned in years.

“Better how?” I ask, because I’m genuinely curious what she sees that I don’t.

“The bones are good. Really good. And the light...” She moves toward the ocean-facing windows. “This is what people will remember. Not just the food, but how it felt to be here.”

See? There it is. The relentless optimism that probably drives everyone around her crazy.

“Tell me about the kitchen layout,” she says, walking toward what will eventually be the heart of the operation.

I pull out the rolled blueprints I’ve been carrying around and spread them across a sawdust-covered table. “Six-burner gas range here. Prep station with a view of the dining room there. Walk-in cooler in the back corner. Pass-through window...”

I’m talking, but she’s moved to the center of where the kitchen will be, arms crossed, eyes closed. Like she’s imagining scenarios I can’t see.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, probably more gruffly than necessary.

“I’m thinking about flow. About how a line cook moves between stations. About where you’d plate desserts versus where you’d fire appetizers.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “This could work. The layout could actually work.”

Relief floods through me, which is annoying. I shouldn’t care this much about her approval.

“Yeah?”

“The dining room’s bigger than I expected. You could probably seat forty, maybe forty-five if you’re smart about the table arrangement.” She walks to the ocean-facing windows, trailing her fingers along the warped sill. “And this view...”

“That’s the selling point. That’s what’s going to make people drive twenty miles for dinner instead of just grabbing whatever’s convenient.”

She turns from the window to face me, and there’s a shift in her expression. Less careful evaluation, more genuine excitement starting to break through .

Which makes my chest tight with something I don’t want to examine too closely.

“What’s the timeline?”

“Six months if the stars align. Eight if this place decides to surprise me with its creative interpretation of ‘up to code.’”

“And you’d handle all the construction? All the business setup?”

“That’s the plan. Permits, contractors, equipment, point-of-sale systems, insurance—all of it. You focus on the menu, the staff training, the guest experience.”

She nods slowly, walking the perimeter of the dining area like she’s mentally arranging tables and chairs. “What about startup costs? Food inventory, initial staffing, marketing?”

“Covered.”

She stops walking and stares at me. “All of it?”

“I told you, I’m not asking for money. I’m asking for your talent.”

“Brett.” Her voice is careful now, like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “What’s your endgame here? What do you actually want out of this?”

And there it is. The question I’ve been avoiding because the honest answer involves concepts like “staying put” and “building a future” that I’m not sure I’m ready to voice. Or believe in.

“I want to build a place that matters,” I say finally. “ A place that serves this community instead of just extracting from it.”

“And then?”

“And then... I don’t know.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly a five-year business plan.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Most people would want some kind of exit strategy. Some idea of return on investment.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I’m starting to figure that out.” She studies me with those sharp brown eyes, and I can practically see her trying to decode what makes me tick. “You’re not very good at this whole business pitch thing, are you?”

“Apparently not.”

“Most investors would have spreadsheets. Market analysis. Profit projections.”

“Would that make you feel better about this?”

“It would make me feel like you’ve thought this through instead of just... winging it.”

“I have thought it through. Just not in spreadsheets.”

She crosses her arms. “How then?”

“By watching you work. By seeing what you could do with proper equipment and adequate support. By realizing this town needs something it doesn’t have.”

“And what’s that?”

“A place that cares more about the community than the profit margin. ”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see her processing. Trying to decide if I’m someone she can trust with her dreams or just another guy with good intentions and questionable follow-through.

“For argument’s sake,” she says slowly, “let’s say I was interested. What kind of food are we talking about?”

My pulse kicks up. She’s not saying yes, but she’s not saying no either. “What do you want to serve?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer that matters. This is your kitchen, Amber. Your vision. I’m just providing the space and the business infrastructure.”

“You’re also risking a significant amount of money on someone you barely know.”

“I know enough.”

“Do you?” She tilts her head, studying me. “Because I get the feeling you don’t really know what you want out of this at all.”

The observation hits closer to home than I’d like. “Maybe I don’t. Problem with that?”

“Only if you expect me to make decisions based on your uncertainty.”

Fair point. And irritating as hell, because she’s right.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why you’re really doing this. And I want to know what happens when you get bored and decide to move on to the next project. ”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, probably because they cut straight to the heart of my usual pattern. Fix something. Move on. Never stick around long enough to see if it actually works.

“Who says I’m going to get bored?”

“Your entire track record, I’m guessing. You don’t strike me as the type who stays in one place very long.”

She’s not wrong. And the fact that she’s already figured me out should probably worry me more than it does.

“Things change,” I say, and there’s something bitter in my voice that makes her study my face more carefully. “I used to be good at planning ahead. Had everything mapped out once. But plans have a way of falling apart when you need them most.”

“Do they? Or do you just tell yourself they will until the next interesting project comes along?”

I want to argue with her, but I can’t. Because she’s calling me out on exactly what I’ve been doing for years, and we both know it.

“Look,” she says, her voice softer now, “if this is just about proving you can flip a restaurant instead of a house, that’s fine. But I need to know that before I bet my kids’ security on it.”

“It’s not about proving anything.”

“Then what is it about?”

I look around the gutted space, trying to find words for something I don’t fully understand myself. “I’ve been moving from project to project for years. Never staying long enough to see if anything I built actually mattered. And I’m tired of it.”

“Tired enough to stay? Actually stay?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Maybe isn’t exactly inspiring confidence here.”

“You want certainty? Guarantees? Because life doesn’t work that way, Bennett. Sometimes you just have to take a leap and figure it out as you go.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have two kids depending on you to make smart choices.”