Page 31 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWENTY

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S tanding on Hazel’s front porch with a bag of gifts, a bottle of wine, and butterflies doing acrobatics in my stomach, I take a deep breath. Don’t drop anything, I tell myself. Especially not your dignity.

The door swings open, and the house smells of cinnamon and cloves and home.

“You’re late, Build-It Man!” Mason announces. He’s wearing safety goggles that are way too big for his little face and a colander balanced on his head like a crown. “We already started the Christmas dinner construction!”

I love his silly nickname for me. Makes me sound like a superhero instead of a guy who sometimes forgets to match his socks.

Amber appears behind him, dark hair twisted up in a messy bun, wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook . My chest does something complicated.

“Construction?” I ask, stepping inside.

“Very serious operation,” Mason explains, adjusting his goggles with the gravity of a person defusing a bomb. “I’m the professional helper now.”

“He’s been helping all afternoon,” Amber says, laughing. “The safety equipment was non-negotiable.”

Smart kid.

The kitchen is organized chaos. The good kind that happens when people who love each other are creating something together.

Crew stands at the counter arranging ingredients with the focus of a kid on a mission.

Tally sits at the breakfast bar with Lila, debating the merits of different Christmas movies.

“What are we making?” I ask, setting down my gifts and wine.

Hazel turns from the sink, eyeing my gift bag with a knowing smile. “Did you get Amber something special?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe.”

“I’m preparing Grandma Pearl’s stuffing recipe,” Amber says. There’s reverence in her voice when she mentions her grandmother. Family recipes are sacred. I get that.

“And Hazel’s roasting a ham,” Tally adds. “Fair warning—she takes it seriously.”

“Good. I respect serious ham preparation.”

“What can I do to help?” Standing around watching feels wrong. These people work as a team.

Mason raises his hand like he’s in school. “You can be my assistant! But you need safety equipment too.”

Before I can protest, Amber hands me an apron—thankfully one that just says Grill Master —and Ellen drags over a step stool.

This is what I’ve been missing, not just Amber, though she’s everything, but the belonging and the way they fold me in like I’ve always been here.

“Okay,” Amber says, tying her apron with graceful efficiency despite the chaos. “Brett, you’re on mashed potato duty. Crew, cheese and cracker tray. Mason, you’re my sous chef for peach chutney.”

“What about me?” Tally demands.

“You and Lila handle the ham glaze. Try not to burn anything down.”

“No promises.” Tally grins.

I’m washing potatoes, listening to Mason explain the scientific properties of peach preservation—which mostly involves lots of “because” statements and wild hand gestures—when Jack appears from the back porch.

“How can I help?” he asks, then sees me and smiles. “Brett! Good to see you.”

“You too.” And I mean it. Jack’s one of those guys who makes you feel welcome without trying. Solid. The kind of stepdad these kids deserve .

“You can help Brett with potatoes,” Hazel says, handing him a peeler. “Fair warning—he’s never made mashed potatoes for ten people.”

When’s the last time I cooked for so many? Try never.

“Don’t panic,” Amber says softly, appearing at my elbow. “It’s just like cooking for one, but with more butter.”

“And more chaos,” Jack adds.

“That’s the best part,” Mason announces, climbing onto his step stool with dangerous determination. He’s got a measuring cup in one hand, a bag of flour in the other. “I need to pour this for the chutney thickener.”

“Mason, wait—” Amber starts.

Too late. He dumps flour toward the measuring cup, misses, and sends a white cloud billowing across the counter. Most lands on my shoes.

I look down at my flour-dusted boots. “Well. That’s one way to season the cook.”

Mason’s eyes go wide behind his goggles. For a second, I think he might cry. Something protective flares in my chest. This kid doesn’t need another adult disappointed in him.

Instead, he starts giggling. “You look like a snowman!”

“A handsome one,” Amber says, grabbing a kitchen towel. Our fingers brush when she hands it to me. That simple touch sends warmth shooting up my arm .

“They needed seasoning anyway,” I tell Mason, dusting off my jeans. “Thanks for the help, buddy.”

His grin could power the whole house.

This is what I want to be good at. Not just the big romantic gestures or serious conversations, but the everyday disasters and the flour explosions and spilled milk that come with loving people who are small and unpredictable and absolutely worth it.

Dinner happens an hour later around a table that’s seen countless meals and will see many more. Jack says a simple grace that includes gratitude for “new friends becoming family.” I have to swallow hard past the lump in my throat.

Mason raises his cup in a toast. “To Build-It Man!”

The cup wobbles, tips, and sends chocolate milk cascading across the table in a brown river.

“It’s ocean soup now!” Mason announces, like he’s discovered a new food group.

“Ocean soup with chocolate seasoning,” I add, reaching for paper towels. “Very sophisticated cuisine.”

“Should we taste it?” Crew asks, always the scientist.

“Absolutely not,” Amber says, but she’s laughing.

“I’ll try it,” I offer, earning horrified looks from the adults and delighted squeals from the kids.

“Don’t you dare,” Amber warns, eyes sparkling.

“What? It might be the next big culinary trend. Ocean-to-table chocolate milk fusion. ”

“You’re encouraging them,” she says.

“Someone has to support their creative endeavors.”

I mean it. These kids should know their ideas matter, even the messy ones. Especially the messy ones.

The doorbell rings as we’re clearing plates. Something complicated crosses Hazel’s face before she forces a smile.

“That’ll be Mads and Spencer. They managed to squeeze us in after all.”

Through the window, I see them on the porch—Mads looking tired, Spencer checking his phone like he has somewhere more important to be.

“I’m so glad you came!” Amber says when Hazel opens the door, giving Mads a genuine hug.

“Me too,” Mads says with real relief. “I’ve been thinking about your stuffing since Thanksgiving.”

“Sorry we’re running behind,” Spencer says, still looking at his phone. “My parents’ thing went longer than expected.”

Hazel’s smile tightens. I remember her mentioning how disappointed she was that Mads chose Spencer’s family Christmas over theirs.

“Well, you’re here now,” Hazel says warmly. “Brett, you remember my daughter Mads? She works at the boutique downtown.”

“Of course. Good to see you both.”

Spencer shakes my hand with one of those grips that’s trying to prove something. I keep mine normal. No point in games.

“Actually, Mads, we shouldn’t stay too long,” Spencer says. “I told my parents we’d swing by again.”

Mads’s face falls. “But we just got here. And I wanted to actually eat some of Amber’s cooking.”

“We ate at my parents’—”

“We picked at tiny appetizers while your mom explained her investment portfolio for two hours.”

Tension flickers before Ellen saves the day.

“Cobbler!” she announces. “Do you want some? It has ice cream!”

Spencer gives her a polite but distant smile. Mads crouches to Ellen’s level with genuine warmth. “That sounds amazing, sweetheart. I’ve been dreaming about dessert all day.”

The difference between them is stark. Mads gets it. Kids need to feel seen. Spencer’s counting the minutes until he can leave.

“The boutique keeping you busy?” I ask Mads as we move toward the kitchen.

“Crazy busy. Holiday season is insane, but I love it.” Her face brightens. “We got this shipment of vintage jewelry that’s gorgeous.”

“Sounds like more than just retail,” I say, catching Spencer’s slight eye roll.

“It is,” Hazel says firmly. “Mads has good style, and she’s wonderful with customers. ”

Spencer’s back on his phone. Mads looks over, her shoulders slumping slightly.

“Anyway,” she says, forcing brightness. “What’s this I hear about presents?”

Right. The gifts that could either show I’m thoughtful or prove I have no idea what I’m doing.

“If that’s okay with everyone,” I say, retrieving the bag.

“We love presents!” Ellen bounces.

I start with Hazel and Jack’s gift, pulling out a wrapped wooden box. “This is for your new family.”

Jack opens it and grins. Inside is a custom sign reading T he Sanders Chaos Headquarters: Est. 2026 with smaller text underneath: Population: 7 humans, 1 dog, and approximately 47 Lego creations.

“This is perfect,” Hazel laughs, holding it up. “Official documentation of the madness.”

“I figured you needed something that acknowledged the beautiful chaos,” I say. “Plus, it has hooks for keys. You know, for when you can find them under all the Lego.”

“Speaking of which,” Jack says, “Ellen, where did you put my car keys yesterday?”

“In the castle! For safekeeping!”

“Case in point.”

Everyone laughs. Something in my chest loosens. This is working. I’m getting it right .

Amber’s gift is next. My hands are suddenly sweating. I’ve been overthinking this for days.

“This is for you,” I say, handing her a small wrapped package.

She unwraps it carefully, like she’s trying to preserve the paper, and opens the box. Her breath catches.

It’s a necklace. Simple, delicate. A small pendant with three birthstones—one for each of her kids—set in a circle of white gold.

“Brett,” she whispers. “This is...”

“The stones are Tally’s, Crew’s, and Mason’s birthstones,” I explain, terrified I’ve overstepped. “I know it’s not much, but they’re the most important part of your life. I wanted you to have something that shows how beautiful that is.”

She’s quiet for so long I start to panic. Too much. Too intimate. Too presumptuous.

“It’s perfect,” she says softly, eyes bright with tears. “Would you help me put it on?”