Page 16 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TEN

brETT

T hree weeks into our partnership, and I’m starting to think Amber Bennett might actually be trying to kill me.

Watching her wield a power drill while wearing paint-splattered overalls and one of those tool belts that somehow makes her look like she stepped out of a hardware store commercial?

That’s definitely taking years off my life.

She’s currently perched on a ladder, installing cabinet hardware with the kind of intense focus most people reserve for defusing bombs. Her tongue is sticking out slightly—a habit I’ve noticed she has when she’s concentrating—and there’s a streak of primer in her hair that she hasn’t noticed yet.

This is exactly the kind of distraction I can’t afford. We’re business partners. That’s it. No matter how many times I catch myself watching her move through the space like she owns it.

“Hand me that drill bit,” she calls down, not taking her eyes off the cabinet door.

“Which one?”

“The one that looks like it could actually get the job done instead of just making optimistic scratches in the wood.”

I sort through the collection of bits scattered across our makeshift work table. “You’re going to have to be more specific. They all look the same to me.”

“The quarter-inch. The one I showed you yesterday. The one you said looked exactly like all the other ones even though they’re clearly different sizes.”

She’s right. I can tell the difference now. But giving her grief about her teaching methods has become part of our routine, mostly because it’s safer than acknowledging how much I actually enjoy these lessons.

“Right. The quarter-inch that definitely doesn’t look like the eighth-inch or the three-sixteenths.”

She shoots me a look that could strip paint. “Are you mocking my technical expertise?”

“I wouldn’t dare. You’re the one who figured out why the kitchen sink was draining backward.”

“That wasn’t technical expertise. That was applied common sense and a willingness to stick my head under a cabinet that smelled like low tide and regret.”

I hand her the correct drill bit, steadying the ladder as she leans to reach the corner hardware.

We make a surprisingly good team, which is both convenient and problematic.

Convenient because the work gets done efficiently.

Problematic because working this closely together is making it harder to maintain the professional distance I know we need.

“So,” she says, starting on the next cabinet door, “I’ve been thinking about the Fall Festival in October.”

“What about it?”

“Johnson’s Seafood just backed out—some kind of family emergency—and the committee’s scrambling to fill the spot.” She pauses her drilling to look down at me. “Mom asked if we might be interested. I told her we don’t exactly have a restaurant yet, but she said they’re desperate.”

“Desperate enough to let a non-existent restaurant set up a booth?”

“Desperate enough to waive the usual application process if we can prove we have proper permits and insurance.” She grins with that bright optimism that both irritates and intrigues me. “Plus, Tommy Hartwell would cut us a deal on fresh crab if we mention Mom’s name.”

“Local suppliers are smart thinking,” I admit grudgingly.

“Dad knows every fishing captain from here to Beaufort. We could get day-boat fish, probably still fresh enough to fight back. ”

That familiar tightness starts in my chest. The one that shows up when I’m getting too invested in a place, in people, in plans that stretch beyond my usual timeline. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid.

“Sounds like we’d have serious local connections,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

“The best kind.” She climbs down from the ladder, wiping her hands on a rag. “What do you think? Are you up for testing some recipes on an unsuspecting public?”

“Call it market research,” I say, because that sounds safer than admitting I like the idea of building something together.

“Market research.” She’s trying to look skeptical, but I can see the excitement building. “What would we even serve?”

“What do you want to serve?”

“Stop answering my questions with questions.”

“It’s your menu, Amber. What sounds manageable?”

She starts pacing, which means she’s about to get that slightly manic look she gets when she’s problem-solving. I lean against the work table, trying to stay focused on logistics instead of the way her eyes light up when she talks about food.

“Okay,” she says, “if we’re doing this—and I’m not saying we are—but if we’re doing this, it has to represent what The Salty Pearl will be about. Fresh, local, elevated but not pretentious. ”

“Keep going.”

“And it has to be portable. Festival food. But not corn dogs.”

I watch her think out loud, building ideas like she’s engineering the perfect workflow. It’s impressive, even if her enthusiasm makes me nervous.

“Crab cakes,” she says suddenly. “But small ones. Sliders. With a remoulade that actually has flavor instead of just mayonnaise and hope.”

“That sounds... practical.”

“And maybe fish tacos. Real ones, not the frozen fish stick abominations most places serve.”

“Even better.”

“What about permits? Insurance? Health department approval? And where exactly are we going to cook all this food?”

Finally. The practical questions that might talk her out of this before we get in too deep.

“Leave the paperwork to me. As for cooking...” I pause, considering. “What about a portable setup? Propane burners, folding tables, and a canopy tent? Jack’s got most of that equipment.”

“You want us to cook festival food on camping equipment?”

“High-end camping equipment. The kind that could handle a small catering operation if we’re smart about it. ”

She raises an eyebrow. “Have you ever actually catered anything on camping equipment?”

“No, but how hard can it be? Propane is propane, right?”

“Oh, this is going to be a disaster,” she says, but she’s grinning now with that infectious optimism that makes smart people do stupid things. “I love it. Nothing says ‘professional restaurant preview’ like hoping our burners don’t blow out in the wind.”

This is a terrible idea. We’re nowhere near ready for public consumption. We don’t even have a real kitchen yet, and she wants to serve food to half the town using equipment designed for camping trips.

“So you’re in?” I ask, because apparently my mouth has decided to ignore my brain’s very reasonable objections.

She’s quiet for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip in a way that’s absolutely not supposed to be distracting but completely is.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Let’s do it. Let’s give this town their first taste of The Salty Pearl.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But if we food poison half of Twin Waves, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, we’re committed to something that could either be brilliant marketing or complete disaster. With Amber, it’s usually both.

T he next three weeks pass in a blur of permit paperwork and what Mason apparently calls “the crab laboratory.” Every time I stop by with coffee and health department updates, Amber’s kitchen looks like a science experiment gone wrong—recipe cards everywhere, testing bowls covering every surface, and her growing collection of remoulade variations that she insists I taste-test.

I should probably be more resistant to these taste-testing sessions.

Should maintain more professional distance.

But watching her face when I try her latest creation, seeing the way she holds her breath waiting for my reaction—it’s becoming the highlight of my day, which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people in trouble.

The practice sessions in my backyard become routine.

There’s an odd intimacy about learning to work together in a space that’s not quite a kitchen but not quite camping either.

She’s patient when I burn the first three batches of fish because propane burners apparently have attitude problems. I’m patient when she rearranges our setup for the fourth time in an hour, claiming she’s “optimizing workflow” when really she’s just nervous.

By the end of week two, we’re moving around each other like we’ve been doing this for years instead of days. By week three, I catch myself looking forward to our planning sessions more than I should, considering this is supposed to be about business.

Which brings me to this morning, festival day, standing in Amber’s driveway bright and early, watching her load half of Williams Sonoma into my truck. How did I go from guy who never stays anywhere longer than a year to someone who’s planning festival booths and thinking about restaurant openings?

This is dangerous territory. The kind that leads to putting down roots and making commitments I’m not sure I’m equipped to keep.

Amber emerges from her house carrying a cooler that probably weighs more than she does, muttering about food safety protocols.

“Need help?” I ask, reaching for the cooler.

“I’ve got it,” she says, then immediately trips over the garden hose and nearly face-plants into my truck.

I catch her by the elbow, steadying her before she can execute what would have been a spectacular crash landing. “Definitely got it.”

“Shut up. I’m nervous.”

“About what? You’ve been cooking for crowds for years.”

“That was different. That was a job. This is...” She gestures at the trailer, the coolers, the banner Hazel helped us make that reads The Salty Pearl: Coming Soon in letters that are only slightly crooked. “This is ours.”

And there it is. The weight of what we’re doing, what we’re building together. This isn’t just a test run or a marketing stunt. This is the first time anyone in Twin Waves will taste food that represents our shared vision.

Our shared vision. When did I start thinking in terms of “our” anything?

“Hey,” I say, waiting until she looks at me. “Remember what you told me about your grandmother’s cooking? About how food is love made visible?”

She nods.