Page 14 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

NINE

AMBER

I ’m standing in my kitchen at five-thirty in the morning, staring at Grandma’s tin like it might suddenly start dispensing life advice along with her famous biscuit recipe.

The house is quiet except for the coffee maker gurgling to life and the distant sound of Mason talking to his stuffed dinosaurs about their “important mission to Mars.”

I’ve been awake since four, which is either a sign that I’m losing my mind or that my subconscious has finally made a decision my conscious brain has been too scared to acknowledge.

Yesterday, standing in that gutted shell of a building with Brett, watching him spread blueprints across a sawdust-covered table and ask me what I wanted—not what I thought was practical or safe, but what I actually wanted—the ground shifted under my feet .

When I told him I wanted to call it The Salty Pearl, and he didn’t laugh or suggest it was too sentimental, when he just said he liked it like my grandmother’s memory was worth honoring... that’s when I knew.

This isn’t just about a job. This isn’t even just about finally opening my own restaurant. This is about becoming the person I was always supposed to be, before fear and failed marriages and broken equipment convinced me to settle for surviving instead of thriving.

I pour coffee into my favorite mug—the chipped ceramic one with Chaos Coordinator in fading letters that Tally found at a thrift shop—and open the recipe tin.

Grandma’s handwriting stares back at me from dozens of index cards, each one a small piece of the woman who taught me that food is love made visible.

“What would you do, Grandma?” I whisper to the quiet kitchen.

But I already know what she’d say. She’d tell me to stop overthinking and start doing. She’d remind me that the biggest risk is not taking any risk at all. She’d probably also tell me that Brett Walker has nice shoulders and I should pay attention to more than just his construction skills.

She was practical like that.

My phone buzzes on the counter. It’s a text from Tally, who’s apparently inherited my inability to sleep when there are big decisions lurking :

Tally: Mom, I heard you talking to yourself downstairs. Everything okay?

I smile, typing back:

Me: Just having a board meeting with Grandma’s recipes. Go back to sleep, honey.

Tally: Are you deciding about the restaurant thing?

Leave it to my seventeen-year-old to cut straight to the heart of things.

Me: Maybe. What do you think I should do?

Tally: Mom, you’ve been dreaming about this forever. But... how would we pay the bills while you’re building it? Did he say anything about that?

I stare at the text, my coffee growing cold in my hands. Trust my practical daughter to ask the question I’ve been too caught up in the romance of the dream to properly consider.

Me: That’s... a really good question. I should probably ask that before I say yes.

Tally: Yeah. But if he has a good plan for that part, then definitely do it. It’s not like Dad’s helping with bills anyway.

The casual way she mentions Chad’s absence hits me like it always does—a mix of anger at him and guilt that my kids have to factor his unreliability into our financial planning.

I look at Grandma’s recipes again, then at the kitchen where I’ve been practicing her techniques for thirty years. This house has been my safety net, my refuge, my anchor. But maybe it’s time to let it also be my launching pad.

I grab my phone and scroll to Brett’s number:

Me: Can we talk? I have some questions about the practical stuff before I give you an answer.

His response comes back almost immediately:

Brett: Of course. Want to come by the building site? I’m there now.

Me: I’ll be there soon.

B y the time I get the kids fed and launched into their respective educational adventures—Tally driving herself in the Honda Civic that represents the only reliable thing Chad’s done in the past two years, Crew catching the bus while muttering about how his math teacher “doesn’t understand his creative approach to geometry,” and Mason deposited at daycare with three backup snacks because apparently I’m raising a tiny survivalist—I’ve ping-ponged between confidence and sheer terror approximately seventeen times.

I walk in to find Brett attacking a section of rotted baseboard with a crowbar, wearing safety glasses and a look of intense concentration. There’s already a pile of debris in the corner that suggests he’s been at this for a while.

“Aggressive renovation therapy?” I ask .

He looks up, scowling. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well make myself useful.” He sets down the crowbar and walks over to me, all business. “So. Ready to talk logistics?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, then take a breath.

“Okay, here’s the thing. I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in years.

But I need to know how I’m supposed to keep my kids fed and my mortgage paid while we’re building this place.

Because unless you’ve invented a way to run a household on dreams and sawdust, I need an actual plan. ”

He nods curtly, like he was expecting this. “I’ve been thinking about that. What if I paid you a salary during construction? Market rate for a project manager, since that’s essentially what you’d be doing.”

I blink. “You want to pay me to learn how to renovate the restaurant I’m going to run?”

“I want to pay my business partner for her time and expertise while we build our shared investment. There’s a difference.”

His tone is so matter-of-fact, so businesslike, that it almost stings. Here I am getting all emotional about dreams and legacies, and he’s treating this like a construction contract.

“Brett, I can’t let you?—”

“Amber.” His voice is flat, no-nonsense. “This isn’t charity. This is smart business. You know more about restaurant operations than I ever will. Your input during construction isn’t just helpful. It’s essential. I’d be an idiot not to pay for that kind of consulting.”

I study his face, looking for warmth, for any sign that this matters to him beyond the bottom line. But there’s nothing but professional efficiency in his expression. “What’s market rate for restaurant project management?”

He names a number that’s actually higher than what I was making at the diner. My legs go a little weak.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Plus, once we open, you’ll draw a full manager’s salary. I looked up the regional averages and added twenty percent because you’re going to be good at this.”

The relief that floods through me is so intense I have to lean against the demolished wall for support. But there’s something else too—disappointment that he’s being so coldly practical about everything.

“I was lying awake last night trying to figure out how to make the unemployment benefits stretch until we opened. I was mentally calculating whether I could sell plasma.”

He winces slightly. “You should have asked sooner.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was just in this for the money.”

“I know you’re not. That’s exactly why you deserve to be paid properly for what you’re bringing to this partnership. ”

Partnership. The word feels sterile somehow, like he’s deliberately keeping distance between us.

I take a shaky breath, feeling like I can finally exhale properly for the first time in weeks. But there’s still one more fear clawing at my chest.

“What if this gets complicated?” I ask quietly. “What if mixing business with... whatever this is between us... what if it ruins both?”

Brett goes very still, his expression shuttering. “What are you asking, Amber?”

“I’m asking if you’ve thought about what happens when your business partner is also someone you look at like...” I gesture helplessly between us. “Like you looked at me yesterday.”

“How did I look at you?”

“Like you wanted to do more than just build a restaurant together.”

We stare at each other across the construction debris, and I can see him building walls in real time.

“You’re reading too much into things,” he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. “This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.”

The words hit like a slap. “Right. Of course. Business.”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Professional boundaries?”

“I...” I flounder, because he’s throwing my own concerns back at me, but hearing him dismiss whatever spark exists between us feels worse than I expected. “I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“We are. Business partners. That’s it.”

His tone is so final, so cold, that I almost want to argue with him. Almost want to point out that business partners don’t usually look at each other the way he was looking at me yesterday. But his expression is locked down tight, all grumpiness and professional distance.

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play this, I can be professional too.

“Good,” I say brightly, because if he wants to pretend there’s nothing between us, I’ll show him just how sunny and uncomplicated I can be. “Then it’s settled. We’re business partners building a restaurant together. Nothing personal about it at all.”

“Right.”

“Great! So when do we start?”

Something flickers across his face—annoyance, maybe, or frustration. Good. Let him be grumpy about my relentless positivity.

“Today, if you want. I was about to start demolition on the kitchen wall.”

“Perfect! I love demolition. Very therapeutic.”

He hands me safety glasses, work gloves, and a sledgehammer that’s heavier than it looks. “Your job is to take out this wall. Just watch out for electrical wires.”

“See? I’m not completely hopeless with tools,” I say after successfully avoiding the wires .

“Jury’s still out on that,” he mutters, which makes me want to prove him wrong.

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know I can fix anything with creativity and determination.”

“That explains the diner’s aesthetic.”

“Hey! That place had character.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”