Page 28 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

SEVENTEEN

AMBER

I push through my front door, still processing whatever happened between Brett and me on that ferry dock. The house smells like an afternoon supervised by a seventeen-year-old—microwave popcorn, craft supplies, and something that might be Play-Doh mixed with pure chaos.

“I’m home!” I call out, dropping my bag on the hallway table.

“Mom!” Mason barrels around the corner wearing what appears to be every pirate accessory we own. His construction paper hat sits sideways over one eye, and he’s brandishing a pool noodle like a sword. “Tally let us build a fort, and I’m Captain Goldfish!”

“Captain Goldfish?”

“Because I found all the treasure.” He opens his palm to reveal a handful of actual Goldfish crackers .

“Very impressive treasure hunting. Where are the others?”

“Crew’s fishing off the back porch. He says real pirates need to know how to catch their own food.” Mason delivers this with complete seriousness. “And Tally’s in the kitchen making something that smells like Grandma Pearl’s house.”

I follow the scent of simmering broth to find Tally stirring a pot with the intense focus of someone determined to prove teenagers can handle real responsibility. Flour dusts her dark hair, and she’s got that crease between her eyebrows that means she’s following a recipe to the letter.

“Chicken and dumplings?” I ask.

“Found Grandma Pearl’s recipe card in your tin.” She doesn’t look up from her stirring. “Figured we needed actual food instead of whatever the boys were planning to live on.” A pause. “How was your business trip?”

“Educational.”

“Uh-huh.” She tastes the broth with a wooden spoon. “And Brett?”

The question catches me off guard. “What about Brett?”

“You look different. Like when you find a twenty-dollar bill in an old jacket pocket.”

Before I can unpack that particular observation, Crew appears in the doorway with his fishing rod and a tackle box that’s nearly as big as he is.

“Mom! Look!” He holds up his phone, showing me a photo of a small striped bass. “Eight inches, but I threw him back. The guy at the bait shop says you measure respect by what you release, not what you keep.”

“That’s good wisdom. And excellent form in that photo.”

“Dad always made me keep everything for pictures.” He says this matter-of-factly, without bitterness, which somehow makes it worse. “Even the little ones that were supposed to go back.”

My chest tightens. Chad never could resist a photo opportunity, even at the expense of teaching his son proper fishing ethics.

“Well, catch and release shows you’re thinking like a real fisherman,” I tell him. “Protecting the future of the sport.”

“That’s exactly what Grandpa said!”

D inner unfolds with its usual soundtrack of Mason explaining his pirate fort’s defensive capabilities while Crew details the subtle art of reading water currents. Tally shares intelligence about homecoming planning, including something about a flash mob proposal involving the entire debate team.

“Speaking of homecoming,” she says, cutting Mason’s chicken into bite-sized pieces, “Logan asked me.”

I nearly inhale my water. “He did?”

“Last week. I said yes.” She glances at me. “That’s okay, right?”

“Of course it’s okay. I just wasn’t prepared for you to be old enough for formal dances.”

“Mom, I’ve been old enough for three years. You’re just catching up.”

“Logan’s nice,” Crew offers. “He helped me untangle my line last weekend and didn’t act like I was hopeless.”

“Plus he brings the good snacks,” Mason adds. “The ones with sugar instead of disappointment.”

After dinner, I shoo Tally away from cleanup and settle into the familiar rhythm of washing dishes. The kids scatter to their evening routines, and for the first time today, I have space to think.

My phone buzzes.

Brett: Made it home safely. Thanks for today. Already planning our next research expedition.

I stare at the message, remembering the way he asked permission before kissing me. Gentle. Careful. Completely unlike the gruff man who usually treats emotional moments like necessary evils .

Which is exactly what worries me.

Me: Glad you survived the ferry ride. Though I’m still processing this new version of you that says thank you and makes future plans. Highly suspicious behavior.

Brett: Maybe I’m full of surprises.

Me: Maybe you’re setting me up for disappointment when you revert to your usual charming self tomorrow.

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times before his response comes through.

Brett: Fair point. But maybe some changes stick.

Me: We’ll see.

I set the phone down, unsettled by how much I want him to be right. Because Pleasant Brett is dangerous in ways Grumpy Brett never was. Grumpy Brett I can handle. Pleasant Brett makes me hope for things I’m not sure I should want.

“Mom?” Mason appears at my elbow, tugging on my sleeve. “Your face is thinking too hard.”

Apparently my emotional state is transparent. “Just figuring some grown-up stuff out, buddy.”

“Is it about Brett?”

I nearly drop the plate I’m drying. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because you get extra scrunchy when you talk about him. But also smiley. It’s confusing.”

“You and me both.”

He nods sagely and skips away, leaving me with the realization that my preschooler just delivered uncomfortably accurate emotional analysis.

My phone buzzes again.

Brett: Question—completely hypothetical—how do you feel about food trucks?

I dry my hands, grateful for the subject change.

Me: Depends. Are we talking about buying from them or competing with them?

Brett: Neither. What if we did a preview for the New Year’s First Day Beach Walk? Let people taste The Salty Pearl before we officially open.

I lean against the counter, considering this. The First Day Beach Walk draws hundreds of people every year—families working off holiday cookies, tourists embracing local traditions, locals making resolutions they’ll abandon by February.

It could be brilliant exposure. Or a complete disaster.

Me: That’s a big gamble. What if we’re not ready and the weather’s awful and nobody shows up?

Brett: But it could be exactly what we need to build buzz before opening.

Me: Easy for you to say. You’re not the one feeding hundreds of people with untested logistics in January weather.

Brett: We’d figure it out. Together.

There’s that word again. Together. It should be reassuring. Instead, it makes something twist in my chest .

Me: I’ll think about it.

Brett: That’s all I’m asking.

But it’s not, really. Because everything with Brett lately feels loaded with subtext, every business conversation tangled up with whatever happened on that ferry dock.

“Mom?” Crew appears in the kitchen doorway with his fishing magazine tucked under his arm. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Do you trust Brett?”

The question hits like a physical blow. “What makes you ask that?”

“Just wondering. Dad said he’d never hurt us, but then he did.” He says this with matter-of-factness that breaks my heart. “So I think maybe you should be careful. Just because someone’s nice sometimes doesn’t mean they’ll stay nice.”

The wisdom of a child who learned too young that people don’t always keep their promises.

“You’re absolutely right to think that way,” I tell him. “And thank you for looking out for me.”

“Someone has to. You’re too nice sometimes.”

After the kids are in bed, I settle on the couch with a book I can’t focus on because my mind keeps circling back to Crew’s question.

Do I trust Brett?

The honest answer is complicated. I want to trust the man who spent today being thoughtful and present. But I don’t trust that version to stick around when things get difficult.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Brett: Thanks for today. For challenging me to think differently. For not letting me get away with my usual shortcuts.

I stare at the message for a long time before responding.

Me: Don’t thank me yet. I have a feeling I’m just getting started with the challenging part.

Brett: Looking forward to it.

I set the phone aside, hoping he means that. Because if we’re really going to be partners—in business and whatever this personal thing is becoming—he’s going to have to prove he can handle more than just my accommodating side.

He’s going to have to handle the part of me that pushes back.

J essica’s living room looks like a bookstore exploded.

That’s my first thought walking into her place the next evening. Books are stacked on every surface—coffee table, windowsills, even balanced on the arms of her velvet armchair like literary Jenga towers.

“Sorry about the chaos,” Jessica calls from the kitchen, though she sounds more proud than apologetic. “I’m reorganizing inventory for the shop.”

Right. Because Jessica doesn’t just dream about owning a bookstore anymore—she actually opened The Fiction Nook on the boardwalk six months ago. Living the dream in a Victorian storefront with gingerbread trim and big windows that catch the morning light.

Michelle’s already claimed the chaise lounge, her legs tucked under her like a cat in a sunny spot. Her hair’s still slightly mussed from her coffee shop headband, and there’s a smudge of foam on her wrist she hasn’t noticed.

“Wine’s on the counter,” Jessica announces, appearing with three glasses and a bottle that definitely didn’t come from the grocery store. “And yes, I closed early. Benefits of being the boss.”

She settles cross-legged on the rug, somehow managing to look graceful while balancing her wine glass.

“Okay,” Michelle says, settling in with obvious anticipation. “Tell us about your romantic research expedition.”

I take a larger sip than necessary. “It was educational. ”

“Educational good or educational disaster?” Jessica asks.

“Educational confusing.”

Michelle’s eyes narrow. “You kissed him.”

I say nothing, which apparently screams yes louder than actual words.

Michelle squeals. “I knew it!”

“Was it good?” Jessica leans forward. “Like, throw-the-book-across-the-room good?”

I blush. “It was unexpected. He was different yesterday. Pleasant. Helpful. Almost... charming.”

“And this is a problem because?” Michelle prompts.

“Because Brett Walker doesn’t do pleasant. He does gruff and sarcastic and emotionally unavailable. Yesterday felt like he was trying on a different personality.”

Jessica tilts her head. “Or maybe he was comfortable enough to let his guard down?”

“Or maybe he was being strategic. Sweet-talking me into agreeing to business decisions that benefit him more than me.”

“Amber.” Michelle’s voice carries gentle firmness. “What if he was just being himself? His actual self, not the armored version?”

I shake my head. “You don’t understand. Brett’s default setting is defensive and difficult. If he’s suddenly being nice, there’s a reason. ”

“Maybe the reason is that he likes you,” Jessica suggests.

“Or maybe I’m being naive. Again.” The word tastes bitter. “Chad was charming too, remember? Swept me off my feet with romantic gestures and pretty promises. Look how that turned out.”

The room goes quiet because we all know what I’m really talking about. The gradual erosion of Chad’s attention, the way he made me feel like I was asking too much when I wanted basic consideration.

“Brett isn’t Chad,” Michelle says softly.

“No, he’s potentially worse. At least Chad was consistently charming until he wasn’t. Brett’s been consistently grumpy until yesterday, when suddenly he’s Prince Charming. Which version is real?”

“Maybe they both are,” Jessica suggests. “Maybe he’s grumpy when he’s scared and charming when he’s not.”

“Or maybe yesterday was performance art designed to get me to agree to risky business decisions. Like his food truck idea.”

Michelle raises an eyebrow. “Food truck idea?”

“He wants to do a preview at the New Year’s Beach Walk. Rent equipment, get permits, serve hundreds of people before we’ve even opened. It could be a disaster.”

“Could it?” Jessica asks. “Or are you scared it might actually work? ”

“I’m scared it might fail spectacularly and destroy our reputation before we have one.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“That I’d think about it.”

“And what do you think?”

I consider this reluctantly. The Beach Walk draws huge crowds. The exposure would be incredible. A chance to test recipes, get feedback, build community investment...

“It could be brilliant,” I admit. “If executed properly.”

“So work with him to execute it properly,” Michelle suggests. “Instead of assuming he’s trying to manipulate you.”

“But what if he is?”

“Then you handle it,” Jessica says firmly. “You’re not the same person you were with Chad. You’re stronger now. You can protect yourself without assuming the worst about everyone.”

“Can I? Because yesterday I melted the second he was nice to me.”

“You’re human,” Michelle says gently. “And maybe you’re ready to let someone be nice to you.”

We sit quietly, processing the weight of that possibility.

“So what’s your next move?” Jessica finally asks.

I think about Brett’s texts, about his suggestion, about the way he looked at me when he said we’d figure it out together.

“I guess I stop assuming he’s playing games and start treating him like a real business partner. Which means if he wants the food truck thing, he needs to present an actual plan. Budget, logistics, contingencies. All of it.”

“And if he does?”

“Then maybe I’ll stop being suspicious of every nice gesture.”

Michelle raises her glass. “To giving people the chance to surprise you.”

“To not letting fear make your decisions,” Jessica adds.

We clink glasses, and something shifts in my chest. Not the blind optimism that used to get me in trouble, but something steadier and more intentional.

Maybe it’s time to stop protecting myself from disappointment and start protecting myself from regret.

Maybe it’s time to see what Brett Walker is really made of when I stop making it easy for him to hide behind grumpiness.

And maybe it’s time to see what I’m made of when I stop hiding behind sunshine and start showing up as my whole, complicated self.

Because if we’re really going to be partners, he’s going to have to handle more than just my easy, accommodating side.

Starting tomorrow.