Page 25 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

FIFTEEN

AMBER

B rett’s leaning over the stove like a man on a mission, squinting at the recipe card in his left hand while stirring the grits with his right. I’m elbow-deep in flour even though we’re not baking anything, because apparently making buttermilk biscuits was a last-minute add-on.

Which means there’s a fine dusting of white powder over the counter, the floor, the kids’ step stool, and at least half of Brett’s shirt.

“Why did I think I could cook two things at once?” I mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of my face. It immediately sticks to my forehead. “I’ve worked in food service for years. This should be easier.”

Brett glances over with that half-smile he gets when he’s trying not to laugh at me. “You’re doing great. Very Top Chef meets Southern grease fire.”

I scoop up a pinch of flour and flick it in his direction. He dodges like I’ve launched a grenade.

“Careful,” he says, trying to look stern and failing completely. “You’re gonna trigger the smoke alarm again.”

“Oh, like that was my fault.”

“Someone forgot to turn the burner down.”

“That someone was you!”

“Can’t prove it.”

I shake my head and drop the biscuit dough onto the floured surface with more force than necessary. The satisfying slap it makes helps my mood considerably.

“You know,” I say, rolling out the dough with perhaps excessive enthusiasm, “when I invited you over to test recipes, I pictured something a little more... controlled. And a lot less flour-stormy.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You had expectations?”

“I had hopes. Clearly misplaced.”

“Hey, I’m following the recipe exactly. If your grits turn out weird, that’s on Grandma Pearl.”

“Don’t you dare blame my grandmother for your inability to follow simple instructions.”

He turns back to the stove, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “These actually look edible.”

I peek over his shoulder. The shrimp are perfectly pink and the grits are creamy without being lumpy. “ They look better than edible. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’ll save the victory lap for when we see if they taste like food.”

I cut the dough into circles, trying not to notice how we keep bumping into each other in my small kitchen. How he automatically moves out of my way when I need the oven. How he rinses dishes without being asked.

It’s domestic in a way that should feel strange but doesn’t.

“Moment of truth,” I say, sliding the biscuits into the oven. “Want to taste-test while these bake?”

“Only if you promise not to judge my reactions.”

“No promises.”

He scoops a bite of grits onto a spoon and tastes it. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Good?” I ask.

He turns to me, expression serious. “I think I just understood why people write poetry about food.”

I snort. “That’s the butter talking.”

“It’s always the butter. Your grandmother was a genius.”

“She’d approve of you. You take butter seriously.”

“I take everything about this seriously.”

There’s an intensity in his tone that wasn’t there a minute ago.

I lean against the counter, suddenly aware that we’re alone in my kitchen at nine o’clock at night, covered in flour, talking about butter like it’s philosophy.

“Brett—”

The timer dings, cutting off whatever I was about to say. Probably for the best.

“Biscuits,” I announce unnecessarily, turning to the oven.

They come out golden brown and slightly lopsided, but smelling like heaven. Brett leans over my shoulder to get a better look.

“They’re perfect,” he says, his voice closer to my ear than I expected.

I glance up at him. “You sure you’re not just saying that because you’re hungry?”

“I’d eat shoe leather right now if you prepared it properly.”

“Stop,” I say, laughing. “You’re going to give me a big head about my cooking.”

“Too late. I’m already planning to put these on the menu.”

We set the food on the kitchen table—mismatched plates, old silverware, and mason jars for sweet tea. It’s not fancy, but it feels right. Like the kind of meal you’d remember years later.

Brett pours the tea and sits across from me. “For the record, if this shrimp and grits makes it to the final menu, I want naming rights.”

“What, like ‘Brett’s Butter Bomb?’ ”

He nearly chokes on his tea. “Please no.”

“Too bad. It’s going on the chalkboard.”

“You do that, and I’m naming the next dish after you. ‘Amber’s Accidentally Amazing Chowder.’”

“That’s not even alliterative.”

“I’ll work on it.”

He picks up a biscuit and examines it with mock seriousness. “Okay. Good rise, golden edges, structurally sound. The butter-to-flake ratio looks promising.”

“Are you reviewing or flirting?”

“Can’t it be both?”

The question hangs in the air between us, and I feel that familiar flutter in my chest that shows up whenever he looks at me like that.

“Just eat the biscuit, Brett.”

He tears off a piece and pops it in his mouth. “Warm. Buttery. You might actually know what you’re doing.”

“Might?”

“I’m withholding final judgment until I see if you can do this consistently.”

I grab the recipe card from the counter.

“Fine. If we’re doing critiques, I’m reading this like it deserves proper dramatic interpretation.

” I clear my throat and hold the card up like a sacred document.

“Step four: ‘Add shrimp to skillet. Sauté until pink and just cooked through. Do not overcook.’ ”

“Very moving,” he says solemnly. “I felt the emotion.”

“The shrimp deserved respect.”

“The shrimp got respect. Along with an appropriate amount of butter.”

I scoop up a tiny bit of grits with my spoon and launch it in his direction. It lands on his forearm.

He blinks, looking down at the dot of food on his arm. “Did you just start a food fight?”

“That was reconnaissance. Testing your reflexes.”

“My reflexes are fine. It’s my retaliation you should worry about.”

He reaches for his spoon, and I hold up my hands in surrender. “Truce! Truce!”

“Too late.” He scoops up a small amount of whipped butter and steps around the table.

“Don’t you dare?—”

He taps the spoon lightly against my cheek, leaving a tiny dot of butter. “There. Now we’re even.”

I go still. So does he.

His hand lingers just a second longer than it needs to, thumb brushing the butter away. For a moment, the kitchen goes quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my heart beating too fast.

Then he clears his throat and steps back, reaching for his napkin.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “That was...”

“Don’t apologize,” I say quickly. “It was fun. ”

But something’s shifted. The easy teasing from a moment ago has been replaced by something more careful. More aware.

We sit back down, and I focus very intently on my shrimp and grits.

“These really are good,” I say, filling the silence.

“The grits or the shrimp?”

“Both. The combination. It works.”

“Like a good partnership.”

I look up at him, and there’s something in his expression that makes my pulse skip.

“Brett—”

The doorbell rings.

We both freeze. I glance at the clock. Nearly ten. Too late for neighbors, too early for emergencies.

“I’ll get it,” I say, standing quickly.

“You sure?”

I nod and head for the door. When I open it, Penelope Waters is standing there in a pencil skirt and heels that are completely inappropriate for this time of night, holding a white bakery box.

“Amber, darling,” she says, her voice syrup-sweet. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

Behind me, Brett appears in the kitchen doorway. Penelope’s smile widens.

“Oh,” she says, tilting her head like a curious bird. “I am interrupting.”

She doesn’t wait to be invited in. Just steps over the threshold like she owns the place, setting the bakery box on my counter.

“I brought treats,” she announces. “Lemon lavender macarons from that new place in Raleigh.”

“You drove to Raleigh for cookies?” I ask.

Penelope laughs. “Don’t be silly, honey. I had them delivered. Time is money, after all.”

Brett mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like commentary on her delivery habits.

“What was that, Brett?” Penelope asks sweetly.

“Just admiring your... dedication to dessert,” he says, moving to stand beside me.

“Well, aren’t you sweet? “ She clasps her hands in front of her like she’s about to deliver a presentation. “I actually came by to share some exciting news from our tourism board meeting.”

“At ten o’clock at night?” I ask.

“I was driving by and saw your lights on. Thought why not share the good news immediately?”

Brett crosses his arms. “What kind of news?”

Penelope’s eyes light up with obvious pleasure. “Well, it turns out we’ve been approached by a restaurant group from Charleston. Very high-end, very sophisticated. They’re interested in our waterfront properties.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. “And you’re telling us this because...?”

“I thought you should know what you’re competing against,” she says, not even trying to hide her satisfaction. “Professional establishments with proven track records, significant capital investment, connections to food critics and travel magazines.”

“Sounds expensive,” Brett says flatly.

“Quality usually is.” Penelope’s smile sharpens. “The council has a responsibility to choose developments that will elevate Twin Waves’ reputation. Bring in the kind of visitors who stay longer, spend more, write glowing reviews.”

“And you don’t think we can do that?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Her pause is just long enough to sting. “I think you have heart. But heart doesn’t always translate to the kind of sophisticated dining experience that puts a destination on the culinary map.”

Something fierce flares in my chest. The same feeling I got when Chad questioned my judgment. When the health inspector made me feel like I’d failed. When anyone suggests that wanting something isn’t the same as deserving it.

“Sophisticated doesn’t mean soulless,” I say, standing straighter. “And it doesn’t mean ignoring what this community actually needs.”

Penelope blinks, clearly not expecting pushback. “Of course not. I just think it’s important to be realistic about what we’re up against.”

“We’re not up against anything,” Brett says. “We’re building something this town will actually want to come back to.”

“Well.” Penelope’s smile falters slightly. “I suppose we’ll see what the council decides.”

She heads for the door, pausing to press the bakery box into my hands. “Enjoy the macarons, sweetheart. They’re imported lavender. Very sophisticated.”

After she leaves, the kitchen feels different. Like her presence somehow made everything smaller.

Brett exhales slowly. “Well. That was about as subtle as a brick through a window.”

I stare at the box in my hands. “Think she’s bluffing about the Charleston group?”

“No. I think she’s absolutely not bluffing.”

My shoulders sag. “Great. So now we’re not just building a restaurant. We’re competing against some culinary empire with food critic connections.”

“Good,” Brett says, taking the box from my hands and setting it on the counter with unnecessary force. “Competition makes us better.”

“Or it makes us roadkill.”

“Not if we’re better than they are.”

“How are we supposed to be better than people with proven track records and magazine reviews?”

“By being real,” he says simply. “By caring about this place and these people instead of just profit margins and press coverage.”

I lean against the counter, looking around at our flour-dusted chaos, the mixing bowls, the recipe cards, the lingering scent of butter and possibility.

“You really think that’s enough?”

“Against imported lavender cookies and corporate cuisine?” He grins. “Every single time.”

W e clean up in relative silence, both of us processing Penelope’s visit and what it means for our presentation to the council. But there’s something different about the way we move around each other now. Less careful. More sure.

When Brett reaches across me for a dish towel, he doesn’t immediately step away. When I hand him plates to dry, our fingers brush, and neither of us pretends it was an accident.

“You know what I realized tonight?” I say, wiping down the counter.

“What?”

“I’m tired of people telling me what I can’t do. Chad, Penelope, my own inner critic.”

Brett pauses in his dish-drying. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe it’s time I stopped being so careful about everything. About the restaurant, about taking risks, about...” I gesture between us. “About this.”

“This?”

“Our...situation. I keep waiting for permission or guarantees or some sign that it’s safe to care about you. But maybe safe isn’t the point.”

He sets down the dish towel and turns to face me fully. “What is the point?”

“Maybe the point is that you showed up. You stayed. You’re standing in my kitchen at ten-thirty at night helping me plan our defense against corporate competition.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Anywhere. You could be anywhere. But you’re here.”

We’re standing close enough now that I can see the exact moment his walls start to crack. The way his expression shifts from careful to something more vulnerable.

“Amber—”

“I’m not asking for promises,” I say quickly. “I’m just saying I’m tired of being afraid. Of letting other people decide what’s too risky or too complicated or too much.”

“You’re not too much,” he says quietly.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been looking for reasons to run since the day I met you, and I’m still here. ”

The admission hangs between us, honest and a little raw.

“Is that supposed to be romantic?” I ask, trying to lighten the moment.

“It’s supposed to be true.”

And somehow, that’s better than romantic. It’s real.

I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. “So what do we do now?”

“Now we build our restaurant. We show the council what this town actually needs. And we see what else we’re building together.”

“In that order?”

“In whatever order makes sense.”

I smile. “I can work with that.”

“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

“Even when Penelope brings bigger guns?”

“Especially then.”

Standing there in my flour-dusted kitchen, holding hands with a man who makes me want to be braver than I’ve ever been, I realize something important: I’m not the same woman who was too scared to ask for what she wanted. I’m not the same person who let other people define what was possible for her.

I’m someone who’s building something worth fighting for. With someone worth fighting beside.

And for the first time in years, that’s enough.