Page 15 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

I take a swing at the wall with maybe a little more force than necessary. “For your information, that diner had more personality in its broken coffee maker than most places have in their entire dining room.”

“Personality. Right.”

His dismissive tone makes me want to hit something, which is convenient since I’m holding a sledgehammer.

“You know what your problem is?” I say, taking another swing.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Your problem is that you think everything has to be practical and efficient and perfectly planned. You don’t appreciate the beauty in things that are a little broken, a little imperfect.”

“I appreciate things that work.”

“Not everything valuable is about function, Brett. Some things matter because they have heart.”

“Heart doesn’t pay the bills.”

“Neither does being a grumpy perfectionist who’s afraid to care about anything. ”

The words hang in the air between us, and I immediately regret them. But Brett just picks up his own sledgehammer with a shrug.

“Good thing we’re just business partners then. No caring required.”

The casual way he says it stings more than it should. Fine. If he wants to be all business, I’ll show him just how professionally cheerful I can be.

I swing my hammer with renewed enthusiasm, channeling my frustration into productive demolition.

There’s deep therapy in destroying things you’re allowed to destroy, especially when your business partner is being infuriatingly indifferent to everything that doesn’t involve blueprints and building codes.

I’m feeling pretty confident until I take my second swing and somehow manage to ricochet the sledgehammer off a particularly stubborn stud. The rebound sends me stumbling backward directly into Brett’s very solid, very warm chest.

His hands come up to steady me automatically, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of every point where his body is touching mine. For a heartbeat, his professional mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of heat in those storm-gray eyes.

“Easy there,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago.

I turn in his arms to apologize and find his face inches from mine. The air between us crackles with the tension we’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“I should probably... aim better,” I whisper.

“Probably,” he agrees, but his hands don’t drop from my waist immediately.

For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. For a moment, I want him to. But then his expression shuts down again, and he steps back like I’m made of something dangerous.

“Try to keep better control of your equipment,” he says, his voice back to business-like efficiency.

The dismissal stings, but I paste on my brightest smile. “Of course! Can’t have workplace accidents affecting our professional partnership.”

Something flickers in his eyes—irritation, maybe frustration. But he just nods curtly and picks up his hammer again.

“Right. Professional.”

“Absolutely professional,” I agree, attacking the wall with renewed vigor. “Nothing but business between us business partners who are definitely not attracted to each other.”

“Amber.”

“What? I’m just agreeing with you. We’re colleagues. Associates. Two people working toward a common goal with absolutely no personal feelings involved whatsoever.”

“You’re being ridiculous. ”

“I’m being professional! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He sets down his hammer and turns to face me fully. “What I want is for you to stop putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m not putting words anywhere. I’m just respecting the boundaries you so clearly established.”

“What boundaries?”

“The ones where this is just business and I’m reading too much into things and you don’t look at me any particular way.”

We’re standing close enough now that I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw, can see the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides.

“You want to know how I look at you?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

“I think you made it pretty clear that I was imagining things.”

“You weren’t imagining anything. I do look at you. I look at you and think about things that have nothing to do with business partnerships or restaurant construction.”

My breath catches. “Brett...”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that this”—he gestures between us—“is complicated. And complications ruin partnerships. So yes, I’m trying to keep things professional. I’m trying to protect what we’re building here. ”

“By pretending there’s nothing between us?”

“By not letting whatever this is derail the most important thing either of us has ever built.”

I stare at him, seeing the conflict in his expression, the way he’s fighting himself.

“What if it doesn’t have to be either-or?” I ask softly. “What if we can build something amazing and still acknowledge that there’s something between us?”

“Because that always works out so well.”

“Not always. But sometimes. Sometimes the best partnerships are the ones where people care about each other.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see him wrestling with something.

“I can’t lose this, Amber,” he says finally. “I can’t lose what we’re building here. It matters too much.”

“You won’t lose it. We won’t lose it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t. But I know that pretending we don’t have feelings for each other isn’t going to make them go away. It’s just going to make everything weird and tense.”

“Everything’s already weird and tense.”

I laugh. “True. But at least now we’re being honest about why.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and tired and more human than he has all morning.

“So what do we do?” he asks .

“We build our restaurant. We be honest with each other. And we figure the rest out as we go.”

“That’s not exactly a detailed plan.”

“Not everything needs a detailed plan, Brett. Sometimes you just have to trust that things will work out.”

He looks at me like I’ve suggested we navigate by reading tea leaves. “I don’t trust things to work out. I make them work out.”

“And I believe that most things work out the way they’re supposed to if you let them.”

We stare at each other, and I can see the exact moment he realizes how fundamentally different we are. How my faith in good outcomes must seem naive to someone who’s learned to control every variable.

“Opposites,” I say with a small smile.

“Complete opposites,” he agrees.

“Think we can make it work anyway?”

“I think,” he says slowly, “that we’re about to find out.”

And despite everything—the tension, the fear, the complete uncertainty of what we’re doing—I grin.

“Well then, partner, let’s build our dream.”