Page 18 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

ELEVEN

AMBER

“ M om! Dad!” I call out, waving them over from our booth. “Perfect timing!”

They’re approaching with all three kids in tow—Mason bouncing like he’s powered by pure sugar, Crew carrying a stuffed lobster that I’m pretty sure wasn’t part of the original plan, and Tally trailing behind wearing sunglasses like she’s incognito.

“We heard there was some kind of food revolution happening over here,” Dad says, surveying our setup with the critical eye of someone who’s eaten at every restaurant within a fifty-mile radius.

Brett straightens from where he’s been cleaning the grill, wiping his hands on his apron with what I’ve learned is his default expression when faced with social interaction—like he’d rather be anywhere else .

“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett,” he says with a curt nod.

“Just Tom and Linda,” Mom says warmly. “And we’re dying to try whatever’s been making the whole festival smell incredible.”

“We sold out about an hour ago,” I say, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “But I saved some crab sliders for family quality control.”

Brett mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “of course you did” while aggressively scrubbing an already-clean pan.

“What was that?” I ask sweetly.

“Nothing. Just wondering if you’ve designated official taste-testers for every batch we make.”

“Only the important ones. Family gets priority. That’s good business sense.”

“Right. Business sense.” He sets down the pan with more force than necessary. “Not emotional decision-making at all.”

Mason tugs on my apron. “Can I have cotton candy now?”

“After you try Mama’s cooking,” I tell him, already plating the reserved sliders and shooting Brett a look that says, “Be nice to my family.”

He responds with a look that says, “I’m always nice,” which we both know is a lie.

I watch my parents take their first bites, that familiar flutter of nerves hitting my stomach. Dad chews thoughtfully. He’s got the most honest palate of anyone I know. Mom’s eyes close for a second, which is always a good sign.

“Amber,” Dad says finally, “this is restaurant quality. No, this is better than most restaurants.”

“The remoulade,” Mom adds. “What’s your secret?”

“Grandma’s base recipe with a few tweaks. Capers, fresh dill, and a touch of Old Bay.”

Brett appears at my elbow with a plate for the kids, his expression marginally less grumpy. “Thought they might like the fish tacos better. Less... fancy.”

The way he says fancy makes it sound like I’ve been serving caviar instead of crab cakes.

“They’re crab cakes, not fine dining,” I say under my breath.

“Could’ve fooled me with all the ceremony.”

Mason takes a cautious bite of the fish taco, then his eyes widen. “It’s like fish sticks but magic!”

“That’s the goal, buddy,” Brett says, and for the first time today, his smile seems genuine.

He turns to Crew, who’s been studying him with the intense focus of someone conducting an interview. “Interesting lobster you’ve got there.”

“This is Larry,” Crew announces solemnly. “He’s a rescue lobster.”

“A rescue lobster?” Brett nods like this is perfectly reasonable, though I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “What happened to him? ”

“He was trapped in the claw machine for three whole days. Dad says that’s practically a lifetime in claw machine years.”

I wince at the casual mention of Chad, but Brett doesn’t miss a beat. If anything, his expression gets more serious, like he understands the weight of that reference.

“That’s traumatic. How’s Larry adjusting to freedom?”

“Better. He gets nervous around loud machines, but he likes riding in my backpack.” Crew looks up at Brett with the earnest expression of someone sharing classified information.

“Did you know real lobsters can live for like a hundred years? And they don’t actually scream when you cook them. That’s just steam.”

Brett raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed despite himself. “You know a lot about lobsters.”

“I’ve been reading about marine stuff. Grandpa taught me most of it.” There’s a protective edge to Crew’s voice that I recognize—he’s establishing territory. “He takes me fishing every Saturday. We caught a red drum last month that was twenty-three inches.”

“That’s impressive. Your grandfather sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”

“He does.” Crew hugs Larry closer. “He knows all the best spots. And he taught me how to tie proper knots and everything.”

Dad’s watching this exchange with interest, and I can see him evaluating Brett’s responses. The way he doesn’t try to one-up a kid’s fishing stories and acknowledges Crew’s relationship with his grandfather instead of trying to insert himself.

Brett, meanwhile, looks like he’s being subjected to a particularly thorough inspection and isn’t entirely comfortable with it.

Mason bounces over, drawn by the serious lobster discussion. “Brett! Try my fish taco! But be careful. It might be too spicy for grown-ups!”

Brett takes a tiny, cautious bite, then immediately starts fanning his mouth with his hand. “Whoa! That’s got some heat! How do you handle this level of spice?”

Mason giggles so hard he nearly falls over. “It’s not spicy at all! You’re being silly!”

“Silly? Me?” Brett clutches his chest in mock offense, and for a moment the grumpy facade cracks completely. “I’ll have you know I once ate an entire jalapeno.”

Mason scrunches up his face. “What’s that?”

Brett smiles. “It’s a spicy pepper.”

“You ate the whole thing?” Mason’s eyes widen with something approaching reverence.

“Well, half of one. Okay, a quarter. Fine, I licked one once and immediately regretted my life choices.”

The boys dissolve into laughter, and I feel warmth spread through my chest. But underneath it, there’s something else stirring.

A flutter of panic that has nothing to do with the festival crowd and everything to do with how easily Brett fits into this moment when he’s not trying so hard to keep everyone at arm’s length.

How easily my kids are warming up to him and how dangerous that could be if this partnership goes sideways.

“Mom,” Tally appears at my elbow, removing her sunglasses to study Brett with the calculating gaze of someone who’s seen me pick up the pieces before. “Can we talk for a second?”

“Sure, honey. What’s up?”

She glances at Brett, who’s now letting Mason demonstrate his “super ninja fish taco eating technique” while looking like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up in this situation, then back at me. “Is this guy going to be around a lot?”

The question catches me off guard. “He’s my business partner. We’re building the restaurant together.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Before I can answer, Dad appears with his second-place chili ribbon pinned to his shirt like a badge of honor. “Boys, want to show me your cornhole technique while the adults talk business?”

Brett straightens, suddenly looking like he’s facing a firing squad. “Mr. Bennett, I?—”

“It’s Tom. And relax. I’m just curious about your hand-eye coordination when it comes to bean bag trajectory.”

“Grandpa’s going to interrogate Brett?” Crew asks, loud enough for half the festival to hear.

“Probably,” Tally mutters.

“It’s not an interrogation,” Dad says with a grin that suggests it absolutely is. “Come on, boys. Let’s see if this contractor knows his way around carnival games.”

They walk away—my boys flanking Brett like they’re escorting him to his doom, Crew probably already explaining the aerodynamics of bean bag trajectory while Mason provides encouraging commentary.

Brett trails behind, looking like a man walking to his execution, and I know Dad’s not just judging cornhole skills.

“He seems nice,” Mom says carefully, settling beside me at our folding table.

“He is nice. When he wants to be.”

“The boys like him.”

“They like everyone who pays attention to them.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “Sorry. I’m just...”

“Scared?” Mom finishes gently.

I watch Brett attempt a cornhole throw while both boys shout conflicting advice.

The bean bag goes wide, and Brett throws his hands up in defeat with an expression of genuine frustration that makes me want to laugh.

The boys rush over to coach him again, completely serious about their instructional duties.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Scared.”

“Of him?”

“Of this.” I gesture at the scene, at my kids treating Brett like he belongs here despite his obvious discomfort with family dynamics, at the way my parents are clearly evaluating him as more than just my business partner. “Of how fast this is happening. Of how much they already trust him.”

“And that’s bad because...?”

“Because what if it doesn’t work out? What if we open the restaurant, and he decides Twin Waves isn’t for him? What if this partnership falls apart, and my kids are left wondering why another man disappeared from their lives?”

The words taste bitter, shaped by three years of watching my kids navigate Chad’s inconsistent presence by promising to come to Crew’s school play and then cancel last minute and the way Mason would ask why Daddy didn’t want to hear about his dinosaur discoveries.

“Amber,” Mom says softly, “Brett isn’t Chad.”

“I know that. But the kids don’t. To them, he’s just another adult who might or might not stick around.”

“Is that really what you’re worried about? Or are you worried about yourself getting attached?”

I don’t answer, because she’s hit too close to the mark. Because watching Brett with my boys, seeing how he listens to their ridiculous stories despite clearly being out of his comfort zone, makes something in my chest ache with a want that I’m not ready to acknowledge.

Dad wanders back over with an expression I can’t quite read.

“Well?” I ask.

“He’s terrible at cornhole,” Dad says. “Absolutely hopeless. But he asked good questions about Crew’s fishing techniques. And when Mason started getting cranky about losing, Brett redirected him instead of getting frustrated.”

“And?”