Page 23 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Penelope says quickly. “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. It’s just that from a business perspective, consistency can be crucial. Tourists especially expect certain standards.”

Brett moves closer to the conversation. “What kind of standards?”

“Predictable quality, reliable menu availability. Some visitors prefer the security of knowing their grouper will taste the same whether they order it in January or July.”

I begin to understand what she’s getting at. “You think we should use frozen suppliers.”

“I think you should consider all your options. There’s nothing wrong with choosing consistency over... well, over the uncertainties that come with local sourcing.”

Dad folds his arms across his chest. “Ma’am, with respect, who wants to eat frozen fish?”

“Most won’t know the difference,” Penelope says carefully. “But the average diner might value reliability over the subtle distinctions that seafood enthusiasts appreciate.”

The conversation is polite, diplomatic even. But underneath her reasonable concerns, I hear the real message: play it safe, don’t rock the boat, stick to what tourists expect.

“We appreciate the input,” Brett says. “We’re still working through operational details.”

“Of course. I’m sure you’ll figure out what works best.” Penelope heads toward the door. “It’s exciting to see new businesses taking root in Twin Waves.”

After she leaves, the three of us stand in the wake of her visit.

“She’s not wrong about the challenges,” I say finally.

“She’s not wrong about the challenges,” Dad agrees. “But she’s wrong about the solution. You don’t build something special by playing it safe.”

Brett nods slowly. “The question is whether we’re prepared to handle the complications that come with doing things the hard way.”

“I think we are,” I say, feeling more certain with each word. “The other places are fine, but they’re tired. This place will be different.”

“How different?” Brett asks.

“Better than what’s here now, but not trying to be what this town doesn’t need.

” I’m getting excited now, seeing it clearly.

“Fresh fish served in a place where you can actually talk to each other. Entrees in the fifteen-to-twenty range instead of Johnson’s twenty-five-to-thirty.

Nice enough for date night, comfortable enough for family dinner. ”

“The gap between fast-casual and overpriced,” Brett says, understanding despite his usual skepticism.

“Exactly. Somewhere a teacher can afford to take her family for dinner. But still nice enough that you feel special.”

Dad grins. “Now you’re talking. That’s what this town actually needs.”

A fter Dad leaves with promises to call Captain Sarah about flounder, Brett and I are left alone with our planning materials and the echo of two very different conversations about our future.

“Penelope made some valid points,” Brett says, settling onto one of the half-built banquettes.

“About consistency and reliability? She did.” I sit across from him, suddenly aware that we’re alone in our restaurant for the first time since the festival. “But I keep thinking about what makes a meal memorable. It’s not predictability.”

“The risk is that extraordinary doesn’t pay the bills if you can’t deliver it consistently.”

“And the risk of playing it safe is that you become another forgettable restaurant serving adequate food to people who deserve better.”

We’re quiet for a moment, both recognizing that this conversation is about more than just supplier choices.

“There’s another issue we should probably address,” I say, picking at a loose thread on my jeans.

“What’s that?”

“People are starting to talk. About us. About whether this is just business.”

Brett’s expression becomes carefully neutral. “And that’s a problem because...? ”

“Because it could affect how people see the restaurant. How seriously they take us as business owners.”

“Or it could be good for business. People love a story.”

“Is that what this is to you? A story?”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I expected. “It’s a complication I didn’t plan for.”

Ouch. “A complication.”

“That’s not...” He runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don’t. Are you saying you regret going into business with me?”

“I’m saying I didn’t expect...” He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I didn’t expect to care this much about making it work.”

“The restaurant?”

“All of it.”

The admission hangs between us, honest and a little raw. I watch his face, looking for signs of the panic I’ve come to recognize when he thinks he’s revealed too much.

“Brett.”

“I know it’s not smart. I know mixing business with personal feelings is asking for trouble. But pretending there’s nothing between us isn’t working anymore.”

My heart does that skippy thing it’s been doing around him for weeks. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t know how to be just your business partner anymore. And I don’t know if that’s fair to either of us.”

Part of me wants to lean into this moment, to admit that I’ve been having the same struggle. But the practical part of me—the part that’s been burned before—puts on the brakes.

“What if it doesn’t work out? What if we try and it ruins everything we’re building here?”

“What if we don’t try and spend the next six months dancing around each other while trying to run a restaurant?”

It’s a fair question. But it’s also terrifying.

“I can’t afford to get this wrong,” I say quietly. “Not with the kids counting on me. Not with everything we’ve invested here.”

“I’m not asking you to get anything wrong. I’m asking if you’re willing to see what’s already happening between us.”

I look around our restaurant—at the space we’ve created together, at the dream we’re making real through stubbornness and hard work and something that feels suspiciously like partnership in more than just business.

“I need time to think about it.”

Brett nods, though I can see disappointment flicker across his face. “Fair enough.”

“And we need to be careful. Professional. At least until we figure out what we’re doing. ”

“Professional,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word. “Right.”

“I’m not saying no,” I clarify quickly. “I’m just saying... not yet. Not until I’m sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That you’re not going to change your mind and decide this is too complicated. That you understand what you’d be signing up for with me and the kids.”

Brett studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him wrestling with something deeper than just my question. The late afternoon light catches the silver in his hair, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks uncertain.

“How do I prove that?” He asks quietly.

“Time,” I say simply. “Show me that you stick around when things get difficult.”

He nods slowly, understanding passing between us without more words needed. This isn’t about grand gestures or promises. It’s about showing up, day after day, choosing us over the easy exit.

Maybe being brave isn’t about diving in headfirst. Maybe it’s about taking small, careful steps toward something that could be wonderful or devastating, and trusting yourself to know the difference.