Page 19 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

“And he’s either very patient or very smart about kids. Or both.”

Dad adjusts his chili ribbon, watching Brett let Crew demonstrate the proper cornhole stance again. “Question is whether that’s enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“For whatever this is turning into.” Dad’s voice is gentle but direct. “Because it’s turning into more than a business partnership, whether you’re ready to admit it or not.”

“You should go enjoy the festival,” Brett says, appearing at my elbow and wiping his hands on a dish towel with the efficiency of someone who wants this social interaction over as quickly as possible.

“I can handle cleanup. Take your family, get some of that questionable funnel cake, let the kids win some goldfish they don’t know how to keep alive. ”

“Are you sure? We’re partners?—”

“We’re partners, which means I can handle an hour of wiping down tables while you go be a mom instead of a chef for a minute.”

There’s something in his tone that’s almost sharp, like he’s drawing a clear line between work and family time.

“You don’t have to be so grumpy about it,” I say, trying to keep things light.

“I’m not grumpy. I’m practical. Family time should be family time.”

“Right. Heaven forbid personal and professional should ever mix.”

He gives me a look that says we both know how complicated that gets, and I feel heat creep up my neck.

Mom’s already gathering the kids, and Tally’s brightened considerably at the prospect of festival exploration. “Face painting first,” she announces with the authority of someone who’s clearly been planning our itinerary. “Then we hit the craft booths before the good stuff gets picked over.”

Dad’s eyeing the chili cook-off with the intensity of a man on a mission.

“Go,” Brett says again, more gently this time. “That’s an order from your business partner.”

“Fine, but if anyone asks for our crab cake recipe?— ”

“I’ll tell them it’s a family secret, and they’ll have to wait for the restaurant to open.”

I untie my apron, suddenly feeling lighter but also more exposed, like I’m stepping away from the safety of work mode into territory that feels less defined.

“Thanks,” I say, then immediately wonder if that sounds too grateful for what should be a normal partnership courtesy.

“Don’t mention it. Just... try to have fun. You’ve been wound up like a spring all day.”

The observation stings because it’s accurate. “I have not been wound up.”

“You reorganized our condiment station three times in an hour.”

“That’s called efficiency.”

“That’s called stress cleaning.” He almost smiles. “Go enjoy yourself, Bennett. The propane burners will survive without your supervision.”

Strings of pennant banners flap lazily overhead as we make our way down the main festival strip. The air smells like kettle corn, fried dough, and cider. Booths line both sides with hand-painted signs boasting everything from Local Honey to Custom Pet Portraits.

“Face painting!” Mason shouts, tugging my hand. “I want a dragon!”

“Can I get a fish?” Crew asks, still clutching his festival lobster.

We make our way to the face-painting tent, where two college-aged girls are expertly dabbing paint on squirming kids. Crew chooses a sea bass—naturally. Mason asks for “a rainbow dragon with flames,” and somehow they deliver.

The transformation is immediate. Crew starts swimming through the air, making fish faces. Mason puffs his cheeks and lets out garbled roars at anyone who’ll pay attention.

“Impressive work,” I tell the face painters, handing over a twenty. “You’ve created monsters.”

“The good kind,” one of them says with a grin.

As we wander toward the cotton candy booth, Mason tugs on my shirt. “Mama, is Brett gonna come to my birthday party?”

The question stops me cold. “I... we haven’t talked about that, buddy.”

“But he should come. He likes dragons, and he’s funny when he’s not being grumpy.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

“Brett’s very nice,” I say carefully. “But he’s Mama’s work friend. Like how Daddy has work friends.”

Mason’s face scrunches up in confusion. “But Daddy’s work friends don’t come over and help fix things. And they don’t know about Larry.”

Crew overhears and swims over, still making fish faces. “Brett’s different than Daddy’s friends. He actually listens when I talk about marine biology. Even though he looked kind of scared when I explained lobster reproduction.”

There it is. The comparison I’ve been dreading and hoping they wouldn’t make. Because they’re right—Brett is different. He shows up. He pays attention. He treats my kids like their thoughts and stories matter, even when he clearly doesn’t know what to do with them.

Which is exactly why I need to be careful.

“Can we talk about this later?” I ask, suddenly needing space from the conversation and the festival crowd and the weight of my own confusion.

“Sure,” Tally says, appearing at my side with cotton candy. “But Mom? Just so you know—he keeps looking over here like he’s worried about us. That’s not really normal boss behavior.”

I glance back toward our booth and sure enough, Brett’s watching us while he stacks chairs. When he catches me looking, he immediately scowls and goes back to his cleaning with renewed aggression.

“See?” Tally says. “He’s like a grumpy guard dog.”

My heart does that skippy thing it’s been doing more and more lately, and I realize Tally’s right. This stopped being just about business somewhere between the sledgehammer lessons and the festival prep and the way he makes my kids laugh despite clearly being out of his element.

The question is: what am I going to do about it?

B y the time we get back to my parents’ house, the boys are buzzing with sugar and stories about dragons, fishing, and chili competitions. Mom settles them in the den with bowls of popcorn and a Pixar movie while Dad flips between college football and a fishing show.

Tally disappears to raid the fridge, and I slip out the sliding glass door with Mom, both of us carrying mugs of chamomile tea.

The back porch is draped in twinkle lights, and a breeze rustles the trees along the intracoastal. I sink into the Adirondack chair with a sigh.

“Long day?” Mom asks, settling beside me.

“Complicated day,” I say, watching the sky fade to purple. “Successful, but complicated.”

She studies me over her tea. “Want to talk about the complicated part?”

I wrap both hands around my mug, using the warmth to steady myself. “The boys are getting attached to Brett.”

“And that scares you.”

“It terrifies me. Mason’s already asking about birthday parties. Crew’s comparing him to Chad—favorably. And Tally...” I shake my head. “Tally sees right through me. She knows this isn’t just business anymore. ”

“Is it?”

The question hangs in the cooling air between us. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” I take a shaky breath. “And that’s the problem. I wasn’t supposed to fall for my business partner. I was supposed to keep this professional and safe and separate from my kids.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I didn’t.” The admission is like stepping off a cliff. “And now I don’t know how to protect them if this goes wrong. Or how to protect myself.”

Mom doesn’t rush to reassure me, which I appreciate. She just watches the sky and lets the moment breathe.

“When your father and I first bought this house,” she finally says, “I was terrified we were making a huge mistake.”

“This house? But you love this place.”

“Now I do. But then? It was old, expensive, and needed more work than we could afford. I spent the first six months convinced we’d end up losing our shirts.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Your dad.” She smiles softly. “He never tried to convince me I was wrong to be scared. He just showed up every day, worked on one small thing at a time, and proved we could handle whatever came up.”

“This is different, Mom. I have the kids to think about.”

“I know. And you’re right to be careful.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “But honey, being careful doesn’t mean you have to be alone forever. It means being smart about who you let in.”

“What if Brett decides this is too much? What if he realizes he doesn’t want to be part of a package deal with three kids and an ex-husband who can’t be counted on for anything?”

“What if he doesn’t? What if he’s exactly what you and the boys need?”

“I can’t know that. Not for sure.”

“You can’t know anything for sure. But you can pay attention to how he shows up. How he treats you and the kids when he thinks no one’s watching. How he handles the hard parts.”

I think about Brett learning to use the drill bits, never complaining when I rearranged our festival setup for the fourth time. The way he redirected Mason’s tantrum instead of getting frustrated. How he acknowledged Crew’s relationship with Dad instead of trying to compete.

“He’s been showing up,” I admit quietly.

“Then maybe the question isn’t whether you can trust him. Maybe it’s whether you can trust yourself to recognize the difference between a good risk and a bad one.”

The words settle into the quiet space in my chest where fear and hope have been wrestling for weeks. Because she’s right—this isn’t about Brett proving himself. It’s about me being brave enough to believe I deserve someone who stays.

But believing and being ready to act on it? Those are two different things.

And I’m not sure I’m there yet.