Page 17 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

“That’s what you do, Amber. Every time you cook, you’re making love visible. Today’s no different.”

The words come out easier than they should, considering I’m not usually the type to offer emotional support. But something about her nervousness brings out protective instincts I didn’t know I had.

“When did you become so wise about cooking philosophy?” she asks.

“I’ve been hanging around this chef I know. She’s taught me a few things.”

“Chef?” Her eyebrow arches. “I like the sound of that.”

“Better than short-order cook?”

“Much better.”

We load the rest of the supplies in comfortable quiet, both of us lost in thoughts about what this day might mean.

By the time we’re ready to head to the festival grounds, the morning sun has burned off the coastal fog, leaving behind one of those perfect October days that makes you understand why people fall in love with small towns.

Not that I’m falling in love with anything. I’m just... appreciating the weather.

T he festival grounds are already buzzing with activity. Our spot is right between a kettle corn stand and a booth selling handmade soap that smells like it could double as insect repellent. Not exactly prime real estate, but it’s what was available when I called the other morning.

“This is it,” I say, pulling up next to our assigned space.

Amber climbs out of the truck and surveys our territory like a general planning a siege. “We can work with this. The foot traffic should be good, and we’re close enough to the main stage that people will find us when they get hungry.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Also, if this goes horribly wrong, we can always blame the soap smell for affecting people’s appetites.”

“Always planning for disaster. I like that in a business partner. ”

Setting up takes longer than expected, mostly because Amber has very specific ideas about optimal food preparation workflow, and I have very limited experience with portable restaurant equipment.

The propane connection on our main burner decides to be temperamental, requiring three attempts and some creative persuasion with a wrench.

“Is it supposed to make that hissing sound?” Amber asks, eyeing the burner warily.

“Probably not. But it’s not actively catching fire, so I’m calling it a win.”

“Your standards for success are refreshingly low.”

“I prefer to think of it as realistic expectations management.”

By the time we’re ready for our first customers, I’ve learned more about propane burner safety than I ever wanted to know, she’s rearranged our prep station four times, and we’ve both accepted that we’re operating on hope and some very expensive equipment we’re still figuring out how to use.

“Test batch,” she announces, sliding a crab cake slider across our makeshift counter.

I take a bite and immediately understand why she’s been so nervous. This isn’t just food. It’s something that could actually make people drive miles just to taste again.

“This is good,” I say, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice .

“Good good or politely good?”

“The kind of good that’s going to have people asking when we’re opening.”

She grins, and for a second, all the nervous energy disappears. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. This town has no idea what’s about to hit them.”

The festival officially opens at ten, and by ten-fifteen, we have a line. By eleven, we have a crowd. By noon, I’m wondering if we should have rented a bigger trailer and invested in industrial-grade equipment.

Amber moves through the small space like she was born to it, flipping fish, assembling tacos, calling out orders with effortless efficiency.

I’m handling the register and trying not to get in her way, which is harder than it sounds given that our prep area is approximately the size of a large closet.

“Two crab sliders and one fish taco!” she calls out.

“Coming up!”

“Behind you!” She spins around me to reach the refrigerator, and for a split second, we’re pressed together in the narrow space, her back against my chest, both of us trying to navigate around each other.

“Sorry,” she breathes, but she doesn’t move away immediately.

Neither do I.

For about three heartbeats, we’re just standing there, her warmth seeping through my shirt, the scent of her shampoo mixing with beautifully seasoned seafood. And for three heartbeats, I forget why keeping professional distance is important.

Then someone calls out an order, and we spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted.

“Order up!” she announces, sliding plates across the counter with slightly flushed cheeks.

Professional. We’re being professional. Partners running a business together. Nothing more.

Except for the way she keeps stealing glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. And the way I’m hyperaware of every time she brushes past me to reach for supplies. And the way we seem to be developing our own language of gestures and half-finished sentences.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. Getting too comfortable, too invested, too attached to something that’s supposed to be temporary.

“How many more crab sliders?” I ask during a brief lull.

“Twelve. Maybe fifteen if I stretch the mix.”

“Fish tacos?”

“Plenty. I may have overestimated people’s adventurous spirit when it comes to seafood.”

“Their loss.”

She laughs, wiping sweat from her forehead. “I forgot how much I love this. The rush, the chaos, the satisfaction of watching people’s faces when they taste food that actually has flavor. ”

“Missing the diner?”

“Not even a little bit. Well, maybe I miss Bernice. But definitely not the broken equipment.”

A new wave of customers approaches, led by a family with three kids who look like they’re on a sugar high from too much cotton candy.

“What do you recommend?” the mother asks, studying our menu board.

“Both options are excellent,” I say, then catch Amber’s amused look. “But if you’re feeling adventurous, the fish tacos are worth trying. If you want familiar but elevated, go with the crab sliders.”

“We’ll take four sliders and two tacos,” the father decides.

While Amber works, I find myself watching the kids. The youngest, probably around Mason’s age, is eyeing the fish tacos with deep suspicion.

“Is it spicy?” he asks.

“Not spicy,” Amber calls out from behind the grill. “Just tasty. Like fish that went to flavor school and graduated with honors.”

The kid giggles, and just like that, he’s won over. It’s a small moment, but it hits me that this is what Amber does. She doesn’t just cook food. She creates connections. She makes people feel welcome, understood, cared for.

The family takes their food to a nearby picnic table, and I watch as they take their first bites. The parents exchange one of those looks that says this is way better than expected. The kids dive in like they haven’t eaten in days.

“We might have a problem,” I murmur to Amber.

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind where people actually like this food and expect us to have a restaurant to serve it in.”

“That’s not a problem. That’s the goal.”

“I know. It’s just...” I pause, trying to articulate the growing unease in my chest. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

She stops plating to look at me. “Getting cold feet, Walker?”

“Maybe. Just realizing that in about six months, we’re going to be doing this every night. Except in a real kitchen, with actual dining room service, and probably twice as many covers.”

“Scared?”

“Terrified,” I admit. “Also wondering if I’ve completely lost my mind.”

“Welcome to the club. I’ve been oscillating between excitement and panic for weeks.”

“Any regrets?”

She glances around at our tiny, chaotic, tremendously successful food trailer setup. At the line of people waiting to try what we’ve created together. At the banner announcing The Salty Pearl to a town that’s been waiting for exactly this without knowing it .

“Not a single one,” she says.

And just like that, all my fears settle into manageable territory. Which should probably worry me more than it does.

“Besides,” she adds with a grin that’s pure mischief, “it’s too late to back out now. Half the town has tasted our food. If we don’t open a restaurant, they might riot.”

“Good point. I’m not equipped to handle an angry mob of seafood-deprived locals.”

“Smart man.”

B y three o’clock, we’ve sold out of nearly everything except the last two fish tacos, which Amber insists we save for ourselves. The festival is still going strong, but our part is done.

“So,” I say, biting into what might be the best fish taco I’ve ever had, “how do you think it went?”

“See that?” She points to our cash box, which is significantly fuller than it was this morning.

“And that?” She gestures to the stack of business cards we ran out of around noon.

“And that?” Now she’s pointing to a napkin covered with phone numbers from people who want to know the exact moment we’re opening.

“I think it went well,” I conclude.

“It went better than well. It went like we actually know what we’re doing. ”

“Do we know what we’re doing?”

“Today we did.”

We’re sitting on the tailgate of my truck, feet dangling, watching the festival continue around us. The afternoon sun is warm but not brutal, and there’s a breeze off the water that carries the scent of salt and possibility.

This is the kind of moment that makes people think about settling down, about building something permanent. The kind of moment I usually run from.

“Thank you,” she says suddenly.

“For what?”

“For pushing me to do this. For believing I could pull it off. For handling all the boring permit stuff so I could focus on the food.”

“Thank you for trusting me with your recipes. And for not firing me when I couldn’t tell the difference between drill bits.”

“The day is young.”

We sit in comfortable quiet for a while, both of us probably processing what this day means for the future we’re building together.

In a few hours, we’ll pack up and go back to our respective homes.

Her to three kids and homework supervision.

Me to an empty house that’s starting to feel less like a temporary landing pad and more like a place I might actually want to stay.

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

“Brett?” Amber’s voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you offered me this partnership.”

I look at her—hair escaping from its ponytail, cheeks flushed from the heat and excitement, eyes bright with satisfaction. She looks like someone who’s just remembered how powerful she is when she’s doing what she loves.

“I’m really glad you said yes.”

“Even though I nearly took out a load-bearing wall with a sledgehammer on day one?”

“Especially because of that. Shows you commit fully to whatever you’re doing.”

She laughs, nudging my shoulder with hers. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“No backing out now. We’re officially in this together.”

And for the first time since I came to Twin Waves, the thought of being locked into plans that stretch beyond my usual timeline doesn’t make me want to check road maps and job listings.

It makes me want to start planning tomorrow.

Which should terrify me. Instead, it’s like coming home.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and mean every word.