Page 26 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

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M y phone buzzes with a text as I’m reviewing supplier contracts for the third time this week.

Amber: Found a restaurant on Hatteras worth checking out. Family-owned, local sourcing, exactly what we’re trying to do. Want to scope out the competition this weekend?

I stare at the message, coffee mug halfway to my mouth. After our cooking session last week—after holding her hand in her flour-dusted kitchen and admitting I wasn’t going anywhere—I thought we’d figured out where we stood. Partners building something together, both professionally and personally.

Apparently, she’s still thinking about business strategy while I’m wondering if she meant what she said about being tired of being afraid .

Me: Sure. What time?

Amber: Ferry leaves at two Saturday. Meet at the terminal?

Me: See you there.

I set the phone down and lean back in my chair, trying to decode whether this is Amber being practical about market research or Amber finding excuses to spend time together. With her, it could easily be both.

The truth is, I’ve been off-balance since that night in her kitchen. The way she looked at me when she said she was tired of letting other people decide what was too risky. The way her hand felt in mine when she said she wanted to see what we were building together.

I’ve spent forty-three years perfecting the art of keeping things simple, uncomplicated, and temporary. But nothing about Amber Bennett is simple. And I’m starting to think that might be exactly what I need.

T he ferry terminal is packed with the usual weekend crowd—families dragging coolers, couples taking selfies, teenagers who clearly consider this family vacation torture. I spot Amber walking through the chaos, and something in my chest settles the way it always does when she’s around.

She’s wearing a blue sundress and that smile she gets when she’s excited about something, the one that makes her look like she’s planning either a great adventure or a minor revolution.

“Ready for some professional development?” she asks, falling into step beside me as we join the boarding line.

“That’s what we’re calling it?”

“Market research. Competitive analysis. Very legitimate business activities.”

“Of course.” I grin. “And this has nothing to do with you wanting to spend a day on the water.”

“I’m deeply committed to understanding our market position,” she says with mock seriousness. “The fact that it requires a scenic ferry ride is purely coincidental.”

We board with the crowd, and I follow her to the upper deck where the view is better and the noise level slightly more tolerable. She leans against the rail, closes her eyes, and tilts her face toward the sun like she’s storing up warmth for later.

“I forgot how much I love being out here,” she says. “Away from schedules and phone calls and people asking when we’re opening.”

“Getting a lot of pressure about opening dates?”

“Some. Mostly from people who want to plan events around us.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Good problem to have, I guess.”

“Better than people not caring when we open.”

“True.”

We stand watching the mainland shrink behind us, and I relax in a way I haven’t since we started this project.

Maybe it’s the ocean air, or maybe it’s just being here with her without the pressure of permits and contractor schedules and Penelope’s thinly veiled threats about sophisticated competition.

“So tell me about this place we’re visiting,” I say as the island comes into view.

“The Harbor House. I heard about it from Dad—one of his fishing buddies swears it’s the best seafood on the Outer Banks. Family-owned, been there about ten years, sources everything locally.”

“Sounds like our business model.”

“That’s what I thought. Figured we should see how they make it work in practice instead of just theory.”

She pulls out her notebook—the same composition book she’s carried since day one, now filled with supplier contacts, menu ideas, and architectural sketches. “I’ve got questions about everything. Staffing, seasonal fluctuations, how they handle tourist crowds without losing their local base.”

Of course she does. Because even when she suggests what could be a romantic day trip, she’s still thinking about making our restaurant the best it can be.

“What’s our strategy?” I ask. “Beyond eating lunch and taking notes.”

“I was thinking we could talk to the staff, maybe the owners if they’re around. Find out what works, what doesn’t, what they’d do differently if they were starting over.”

“You want to interview the competition?”

“I want to learn from people who’ve done what we’re trying to do. There’s a difference.”

She’s right, as usual. And the fact that she’s thinking strategically about this instead of just romantically makes me appreciate her even more.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say. “Lead the way, boss.”

“I like the sound of that,” she says with a grin that does dangerous things to my concentration.

T he Harbor House sits on a bluff overlooking the harbor, all weathered shingles and wraparound porches that have clearly seen decades of coastal storms. The dining room is exactly what I expected—mismatched furniture that somehow works together, walls covered with local fishing photos, and the kind of authentic atmosphere you can’t fake.

“This is what I want,” Amber says quietly as we wait to be seated. “Not the building necessarily, but this feeling. Like everyone who walks through the door belongs here.”

I look around at the mix of families and couples and obvious locals sharing tables and conversation, and I understand what she means. There’s something genuine about this place that has nothing to do with design trends or marketing strategies.

“Table for two?” The hostess appears to be in her sixties, with the kind of warm smile that suggests she’s been making people feel welcome for decades.

“Please,” Amber says. “And if possible, we’d love to talk to the owner for a few minutes. We’re opening a restaurant in Twin Waves and would appreciate any wisdom they’re willing to share.”

The woman’s face lights up. “That’s wonderful! Joe will be so excited to meet you. He loves talking with other restaurant folks. Let me get you seated first, then I’ll grab him.”

We’re led to a table by the window with a perfect view of the working harbor. Fishing boats coming and going, seagulls diving for scraps, tourists taking pictures of something that’s just daily life for the locals.

“This is what I mean about authentic,” Amber says, settling into her chair. “They’re not trying to be quaint or charming. They just are.”

Before I can respond, a man in his fifties approaches our table with the confident stride of someone who built something from nothing and knows exactly what it’s worth.

“Joe Bradley,” he says, extending a hand. “Amanda tells me you folks are opening a place in Twin Waves. That’s exciting news. ”

“Brett Walker. This is Amber Bennett.” I shake his hand, noting the calluses that suggest he still works in his own kitchen. “We’re researching operational models for family-owned coastal restaurants.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Joe says, pulling up a chair. “I love talking about this business, even when my wife says I talk too much about it.”

For the next hour, Joe walks us through everything—supplier relationships, staffing challenges, the delicate balance between serving locals and tourists. He’s generous with information and genuinely enthusiastic about helping other restaurant owners succeed.

“The key,” he says over plates of fish that’s obviously just off the boat, “is remembering you’re part of a community, not just serving one. We hire local, source local, support local. It costs more sometimes, but it’s worth it.”

Amber nods, taking notes. “How do you maintain quality during peak season when you’re running at capacity?”

“Good systems, good people, and knowing your limits. We could probably pack more tables in here, turn them faster, make more money in the short term. But that’s not what we’re about.”

“What are you about?” I ask.

Joe gestures toward the window, where a fishing boat is unloading the day’s catch. “This. This place, these people, this way of life. We’re not trying to get rich. We’re trying to stay relevant.”

I find myself nodding despite my usual skepticism about sentiment over profit margins. There’s something compelling about Joe’s approach, something that makes business sense even if it’s not traditionally aggressive.

“What’s your biggest challenge?” Amber asks.

“Staying true to what we are when everyone wants us to be something else,” Joe says without hesitation. “Food bloggers want us to be more Instagram-worthy. Tourists want us to be more like chain restaurants. Locals want us to never change anything. The trick is knowing who you’re really serving.”

“And who are you serving?” I ask.

“Our community. Always our community. Everything else is just noise.”

After Joe leaves to check on the kitchen, Amber and I sit in comfortable silence, processing what we’ve learned.

“He makes it sound simple,” she says finally.

“Maybe it is simple. Maybe we’ve been overthinking it.”

“You? Overthinking something?” She grins. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Very funny.” But I’m smiling too, because she’s right. I do overthink everything, especially when it matters this much .

“What do you think?” she asks. “About Joe’s approach, I mean. Community over profit?”

“I think he’s found a way to make them the same thing. Happy community equals sustainable profit.”

“That’s very philosophical of you.”

“I have my moments.”

We finish lunch and walk through the village, ostensibly to observe how other businesses operate but really just to enjoy the afternoon.

The streets are lined with weathered cottages and massive live oaks, everything moving at the kind of pace that reminds you there’s more to life than deadlines and stress.

“Ice cream?” Amber asks, nodding toward a small shop with a hand-painted sign.