Page 20 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWELVE

brETT

I kick off my boots at the door at Jack’s place and follow the sound of classic rock to the back patio. His seventeen-year-old daughter, Caroline, is at the kitchen table painting her nails purple, foot propped up like she’s royalty.

Caroline doesn’t look up from her nails. “Wow. It’s the man, the myth, the flannel.”

“Evening, Caroline.”

“Don’t ‘evening, Caroline’ me. I know you’re here to drag my dad away for some manly bonding ritual involving power tools and beer.”

“Actually, we were thinking more along the lines of?—”

“Save it.” She finally glances up, one eyebrow raised. “Promise me you won’t let him grill anything. Last time he tried to ‘experiment’ with marinades, I had to order pizza to save us all from food poisoning.”

Jack appears in the doorway. “I heard that, and my grilling skills have vastly improved.”

“Oh please. You burned water last week.”

“That’s physically impossible.”

“And yet, somehow, you managed it.” Caroline waves her purple nails dismissively. “Go. Bond. Keep it outside where the rest of us don’t have to witness the testosterone festival.”

We head out to the patio, which overlooks the backyard. There’s a hammock strung between two trees and a fire pit in the center with half-burnt logs from the night before. I take a beer from the cooler and settle into one of the Adirondack chairs.

Jack drops into the chair beside me and stretches out. “So. I saw your face when Mason roared at you with that dragon paint.”

I grunt and crack my beer open. “That kid has zero volume control.”

“Better get used to it. Those boys have already decided you’re part of the family.”

“That’s... presumptuous of them.” I take a long pull of my beer, trying to ignore the way the comment makes my chest tight. “We’re business partners. Nothing more.”

“Right. Business partners.” Jack’s tone suggests he’s not buying it for a second. “That why you looked like you were about to adopt Crew when he started explaining lobster psychology?”

“I was being polite. Kid knows his marine biology.”

“And Mason challenging you to a spice tolerance contest?”

“Kids say things. Doesn’t mean anything.”

But even as I say it, I can’t shake the memory of Mason’s delighted giggle when I pretended his fish taco was too spicy. Or the way Crew’s whole face lit up when I asked questions about his stuffed lobster instead of dismissing it as silly kid stuff.

Jack nods slowly. “Right. Kids say things.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Amber’s doing a good job with them.”

“She’s...” I pause, searching for words that won’t reveal too much. “She handles it all well. The mom thing.”

“The mom thing?” Jack raises an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re calling raising three kids as a single parent while building a business?”

“You know what I meant.”

“I know you’re being careful not to say anything that sounds too interested.”

I scowl at him. “Because I’m not. Interested, that is. We’re building a restaurant together. Professional partnership.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the evening air thick with cicadas and the weight of things I’m not ready to examine too closely.

“She doesn’t make it look easy,” I say finally, surprising myself. “Yesterday at the festival, watching her manage all three kids while running our booth... I don’t know how she does it.”

“Practice. And desperation.” Jack’s voice turns more serious. “Single parenting isn’t a choice she made, you know. It’s a situation she’s handling.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because sometimes people look at single moms and think they chose the hard way instead of recognizing they’re making the best of a bad situation.”

The comment hits closer to home than I’d like. Because maybe I have been thinking of Amber’s situation as something she chose rather than something that happened to her.

“Chad’s an idiot,” I mutter.

“That he is. But that’s not your problem to solve.”

“I’m not trying to solve anything. We’re business partners.”

Jack snorts. “Right. Business partners. That’s why you bought her kids’ flip-flops and looked ready to throw down with anyone who criticized her crab cakes.”

“Those were good crab cakes.”

“They were. But my point stands.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. This is exactly the kind of conversation I’ve been trying to avoid. The kind that makes you examine feelings you’re not ready to have.

“There’s something else,” Jack says, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Would you be my best man?”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Best man. At the wedding. You’re the closest thing I have to family here, and you’ve been through all the chaos with us. The renovation disasters, Hazel’s planning marathons, all the vendor mix-ups.”

“I...” The request catches me completely off guard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d be honored.”

“Great. There’s one small detail I should mention.” Jack grins, and there’s mischief in his expression. “The wedding’s set for May fifteenth. And Hazel told Amber today that she’s the maid of honor.”

I nearly choke on my beer. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. You and Amber, walking down the aisle together. Well, technically walking back up the aisle together.”

My brain short-circuits. Walking arm in arm with Amber. In formal wear. In front of half the town. While pretending we’re just business partners.

“May fifteenth,” I repeat, stalling for time.

“Perfect beach weather, according to Hazel. She’s been planning this since we got engaged.”

“Of course she has.”

“Should be interesting,” Jack says with barely contained amusement. “You and Amber, all dressed up, having to act like a couple for photos.”

“We’re not a couple. We’re?—”

“Business partners. Right. You mentioned that.”

From inside, Caroline’s voice drifts out: “Are you two seriously having this conversation again? Brett likes Amber. Amber likes Brett. Everyone can see it except them.”

“I can hear you!” I call back.

“Good! Maybe it’ll prepare you for the inevitable!”

Jack nearly chokes on his beer, and I glare at him. “Your daughter has opinions.”

“She has eyes. And she’s not wrong.”

“She’s seventeen.”

“Which means she’s old enough to recognize obvious romantic tension when she sees it.”

I take a long drink as the sun sinks toward the horizon. The idea of walking down an aisle with Amber, even as wedding party members, makes something in my chest flutter that I’m not ready to name.

“This changes nothing,” I say finally. “We’re still just business partners.”

“Sure you are. And I’m helping Hazel plan this wedding because I really love floral arrangements.”

Caroline appears in the doorway, examining her freshly painted nails. “For the record, Uncle Brett, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.”

“Thanks for the geography lesson. ”

“You’re welcome. Also, Amber’s going to look amazing in a bridesmaid dress. Just saying.”

She disappears back inside, leaving me with an image I absolutely don’t need in my head.

“She’s not wrong about that either,” Jack says quietly.

I drain the rest of my beer and stand up. “I should go. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Brett.” Jack’s voice stops me at the door. “For what it’s worth, she’s good people. Amber. And those kids... they could use someone who sticks around.”

“I’m not going anywhere. We have a restaurant to build.”

“Right. The restaurant.” Jack nods. “Just remember. Some things are worth staying for. Even when they scare you.”

I head home with his words echoing in my head and the uncomfortable realization that maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to understand what he means.

B y midmorning, I’m at The Salty Pearl again, oversized coffee growing lukewarm in the October heat. The place is humming with activity—ductwork going in, electricians calling measurements, someone hauling a stack of subway tile toward the kitchen .

We’re in the thick of it now. Walls up, floors sealed, decisions being made daily that’ll shape what this place becomes.

The financial reality hits me at moments like this.

I’m carrying her salary, the construction costs, the permits, the insurance.

It’s more money than I’ve ever committed to a single project.

More money than I’ve ever invested in something I might actually want to keep. The thought makes me uncomfortable, so I push it aside. Last time I invested this much in permanence, I lost everything in an instant.

Amber walks through the door wearing a navy baseball cap with her ponytail pulled through the back, black leggings, and a coral hoodie that says Mom Mode: Activated.

She looks like she’s been managing three different breakfast preferences and a homework crisis, but somehow still has everything under control.

The sight of her walking into this space—our space—hits me with something I’m not ready to examine too closely.

“Morning,” I say, holding out her iced coffee like a peace offering.

She takes it with a grateful sigh. “You spoil me.”

“You look like you’ve already put in a full day’s work.”

“Mason decided his dinosaurs needed individual breakfast menus. Crew’s working on a presentation about sustainable fishing practices. Tally’s pretending she’s too cool for high school but secretly stressed about her college essay.”

“Sounds like a typical Tuesday.”

“Pretty much.” She takes a long sip of coffee and surveys the controlled chaos around us. “Please tell me we’re still on schedule.”

“We’re actually ahead of schedule. Turns out having a partner who knows exactly what she wants makes everything move faster.”

She pulls out her notebook, the same battered composition book she’s been carrying since day one, now filled with measurements and supplier notes.

“So the spice rack wall goes here,” she says, pointing to the space beside the main prep station.

“And I want a chalkboard right there for daily specials. Handwritten, personal.”

“Crew still lobbying for the fresh catch board?”