Page 29 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)
EIGHTEEN
brETT
A mber’s already at The Salty Pearl when I arrive, surrounded by what looks like the aftermath of a bureaucratic explosion. Vendor contracts sprawl across our makeshift table, her laptop balances precariously on a stack of health department forms, and she’s got the phone against her ear.
She looks up when I walk in, and her expression shifts from harried relief to something more guarded. Three weeks since our kiss, three weeks of her challenging every business decision I make, and we’re still dancing around each other like teenagers afraid to admit they like someone.
“Please tell me you brought coffee,” she says, ending whatever call she was on with obvious frustration.
“Michelle’s finest.” I set down two cups, noting the way she immediately relaxes when she takes that first sip. “Double shot for you, regular for me.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” She pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I’ve been on hold with licensing for forty minutes. Apparently, our food truck permit application needs three additional forms that no one mentioned when I filed the original paperwork.”
This is exactly the kind of bureaucratic mess that usually sends my blood pressure through the roof.
But watching Amber tackle it with determined efficiency—the same way she’s tackled every challenge I’ve thrown at her since she decided to stop letting me get away with shortcuts—makes me want to handle every annoying detail so she doesn’t have to.
Which is dangerous thinking for someone who’s supposed to be keeping things professional.
“What’s the damage?” I ask, settling into the chair across from her.
“Two weeks’ delay, minimum. Unless we want to pay expedited processing fees that cost more than our entire marketing budget.
” She pulls up another tab on her laptop.
“Which, before you ask, I already calculated. The food truck idea you texted about three weeks ago? It’s looking less like Plan B and more like Plan A. ”
I lean back in my chair, letting the familiar irritation wash over me. “Of course. Because why would government offices make anything simple?”
“Don’t start,” she says, not looking up from her screen. “I’ve already heard your thoughts on bureaucratic incompetence. Twice this week.”
Right. Because I’ve been particularly vocal about permit delays and holiday office closures. Three weeks of equipment testing and staff training, and I’m still finding new ways to complain about things outside our control.
“It’s not that bad,” she continues, pulling up another website. “I found this food truck company in Wilmington that can work with our timeline. Look.”
She angles the screen toward me, showing photos of gleaming mobile kitchens with professional wraps and commercial-grade equipment.
Her enthusiasm radiates off her despite the morning’s frustrations, and I find myself caught between admiration for her resilience and relief that we’re finally past the equipment testing phase.
“The beauty is we can start building our customer base now,” she continues, clicking through more photos. “Test our systems, make actual money while we wait for permits. And after three weeks of working out the kinks in our mobile setup, I think we’re actually ready.”
“You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.” A slight flush colors her cheeks. “I couldn’t sleep, so I researched food truck logistics until three in the morning. Again.”
“Again? ”
“I may have done this twice since you suggested it. The first time, I was too stubborn to admit it was a good idea.”
The mental image of her up late solving problems while I was lying awake thinking about that kiss—and the way she’s pushed back on every decision since—makes something twist in my chest. We’re both losing sleep, but for completely different reasons.
“Show me the specs,” I say, because focusing on equipment details is safer than wondering what she was wearing at three in the morning.
She walks me through the options with the kind of thorough preparation that would impress a military strategist. Full commercial kitchen on wheels, flexible parking arrangements, revenue projections that actually make sense—all refined from the past three weeks of equipment trials and staff training sessions.
“What about staffing?” I ask.
“That’s the best part. Our core team is already trained on the mobile kitchen setup. We’ve run three practice services, worked out the timing issues, and everyone’s excited about the New Year’s debut.”
“You really have thought of everything.”
“I’ve had a lot of coffee and Christmas anxiety. Plus three weeks of you questioning every detail of every plan I make, equipment malfunctions during our test runs, and staff training sessions that went way longer than expected. It’s forced me to be extra thorough. ”
There’s a slight edge to her voice—not angry, but not entirely joking either. The memory of last week’s disaster when the fryer overheated during practice service still makes me wince.
She laughs, but there’s real stress underneath it. Dark circles under her eyes suggest the three-hour research session wasn’t her first late night this week.
“How are the kids handling all this chaos?” I ask, because someone needs to check if she’s taking care of herself.
Her whole expression softens. “Mason’s convinced the food truck is actually a pirate ship. He keeps asking when we’re sailing to ‘treasure island.’ And Crew wants to design our logo—apparently it needs fishing hooks and maybe a cartoon bass. He’s been sketching designs during our staff meetings.”
“What about Tally?”
“She’s been incredible. Taking care of the boys during our evening prep sessions, handling dinner when I’m here until eight testing recipes. Sometimes I think she’s more mature than I am.”
There’s that fierce protectiveness in her voice when she talks about her kids. It does things to my chest that I’m not ready to examine too closely.
“They’re lucky to have you,” I say.
“Are they? Because I feel like I’m constantly choosing between the restaurant and them. Missing dinner because of equipment training sessions, working when I should be helping with homework. Last week during our practice service, I completely forgot about Crew’s fishing tournament signup deadline.”
“You’re building something that will give them security. That matters.”
She looks down at her coffee cup. “I hope so. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just repeating my parents’ mistakes—so focused on providing that I forget to actually be present.”
The vulnerability in her voice makes me want to pull her close and promise that everything will work out perfectly. Instead, I lean forward and say what she needs to hear.
“You’re nothing like your parents. You worry about balance because you care about getting it right. They never worried at all.”
“How do you know what my parents were like?”
The question catches me off guard. “You’ve mentioned things. The way they prioritized work over family.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You pay attention to details.”
“I pay attention to you.”
The words hang between us, more honest than I intended. Her cheeks flush again, and she looks back at her laptop screen.
“We should probably call the food truck company,” she says. “Set up a meeting to see their available units. ”
“Right. Business first.”
But as we spend the next hour making calls and finalizing logistics for our New Year’s Beach Walk debut, I catch her glancing at me with this new awareness, like she’s seeing possibilities she wasn’t letting herself consider before.
The food truck is ready to roll. The county permits are finally approved. Our staff knows the mobile kitchen systems inside and out after weeks of training. Everything’s set for our January first launch.
“We should update the staff,” Amber says, making notes in her ever-present notebook. “Final briefing about New Year’s Day logistics before everyone goes home for Christmas.”
“I’ll handle the kitchen crew. You take front of house?”
“Deal. Though after three weeks of training sessions, I think they could run this thing without us.”
We divide tasks with the easy rhythm we’ve developed over months of working together—though it’s taken these past three weeks for us to stop second-guessing each other’s every move.
And despite the permit delays and Christmas stress, something settles between us.
Not just understanding, but anticipation.
“Brett?” she says as we’re packing up.
“Yeah?”
“About what you said earlier. About paying attention to me. ”
My hands still on the papers I’m stacking. “What about it?”
“I pay attention to you too.”
The admission is soft, almost reluctant, like she’s confessing to something she shouldn’t want.
“Good to know,” I say, though my voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Is it? Good to know?”
I look up to find her watching me with that same guarded expression from when I first walked in. Like she’s testing dangerous ground.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
She nods once, a decision made, and gathers her things. “I should pick up the kids. Last day of school before Christmas break.”
“Need help carrying anything to your car?”
“I’ve got it.” She pauses at the door. “Brett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not making this more complicated than it already is.”
“Thank you for not giving up on me when I was being impossible about your ideas.”
“You weren’t impossible. You were thorough. Annoyingly thorough, but thorough.”
She smiles—the first completely unguarded smile I’ve seen from her in weeks—and heads out into the December afternoon.
I watch through the window as she loads her car with papers and Christmas presents she’s been hiding in her trunk.
The woman who spent the morning turning bureaucratic disasters into business opportunities is now switching seamlessly into mom mode, probably running mental lists of gift wrapping and holiday cookies.
The duality shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it does. She makes everything look effortless when I know she’s juggling more than most people could handle.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Amber: Crew wants to know if you’re coming to his fishing presentation at school tomorrow. Apparently, he mentioned you in his report about local fishing techniques. Something about the bass fishing tips you shared during our equipment testing day.
I stare at the message, something warm and terrifying unfurling in my chest. Because somewhere between permit applications and food truck logistics, I’ve become part of their daily conversations. Part of their world in ways that have nothing to do with business partnerships.
Me: What time?
Amber: 2 PM. Fair warning. Mason will probably ask if you brought your pirate hat.
Me: I’ll see what I can find.
Amber: You don’t actually need a pirate hat.
Me: Says who?
There’s a pause before her response comes through.
Amber: You’re going to fit in just fine .
I pocket the phone and lock up the restaurant space, that warm feeling still spreading through my chest. Because despite all my careful boundaries and professional distance, Amber Bennett and her kids are becoming less like business associates and more like... family.
And for the first time in years, that doesn’t scare me.
It feels like coming home.