Page 33 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWENTY-ONE

AMBER

D ad’s boat rocks in the harbor as I watch him explain proper bait technique to Crew, who listens as if Dad reveals the secrets of the universe. In Crew’s mind, he probably does.

“Hook it through the eye socket,” Dad says, demonstrating with a piece of shrimp. “Keeps it on the line better, looks more natural.”

“Does it hurt the shrimp?” Crew asks, because my kid who can read water currents still worries about crustacean feelings.

“Nah, buddy. Shrimp’s gone to shrimp heaven. We’re giving it one last chance to be useful.”

“Oh good. I thought maybe they had shrimp families missing them.”

Brett stands beside me at the rail, close enough for me to feel warmth radiating from his skin.

He wears a faded blue button-down with rolled sleeves, and when he moves, I catch glimpses of those forearms appearing in my thoughts way too much lately.

The morning sun catches silver threads in his dark hair, and his concentrated scowl makes even innocent conversations feel loaded with tension.

I’m drowning in trouble. Ocean-deep trouble.

“Your dad shows patience with him,” Brett says, watching Crew attempt his own bait-hooking under Dad’s supervision.

“They’ve been fishing together since Crew could hold a rod. Dad claims he has better instincts than most adults.”

“Kid has focus.”

Something grudging colors Brett’s voice, as though he’s impressed despite himself. Three weeks ago, he would have made some comment about kids creating distractions. Now he actually watches Crew with genuine interest.

“Maybe you should try it sometime,” I suggest. “Fishing. Might help with that permanent scowl.”

“I don’t scowl.”

“Right now you’re scowling at a perfectly innocent shrimp bucket.”

Mom’s voice drifts from the cabin below. “Remember when Amber was Crew’s age and named every fish she caught? She’d throw them back and wave goodbye. ‘Bye, Frederick! Have a good life, Beatrice!’”

“Mom,” I groan.

“Then there was the time she convinced Grandma Pearl to let her cook her first whole fish. Her grandmother was so proud until Amber served it with the head still on and spent dinner apologizing to it.”

Brett’s mouth twitches—the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen from him all morning. He’s spent the morning in full grumpy mode since we left the dock, probably because I dragged him out here at dawn without enough coffee.

“I was seven,” I protest. “It seemed wrong to waste any part.”

“She cried for an hour,” Mom adds helpfully.

“At least I didn’t spend my childhood scowling at perfectly good fish,” I mutter, loud enough for Brett to hear.

His eyebrow raises. “I don’t scowl.”

“You scowl right now.”

“This constitutes my thinking face.”

“Your thinking face looks remarkably similar to your everything-else face.”

Dad hooks fresh bait and hands the rod to Crew. “Show me what you learned, Captain.”

“Can I try casting to that spot where the water changes color?” Crew asks, pointing toward a patch of deeper blue. “Fish like the temperature breaks, right? ”

“Smart boy. Go for it.”

Brett moves closer to watch, his arm brushing mine as he leans against the rail. The contact sends sparks up my arm, which seems ridiculous. I’m a grown woman with three children and a business to run. I should not get flustered by accidental arm contact.

But then he turns to look at me with those storm-gray eyes, and my brain stops working entirely.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low. “You look... flushed.”

“Fine,” I manage, though my voice sounds breathless. “The morning sun...”

“It’s barely sunrise.”

“Very... powerful sunrise.”

His eyes flick to my lips for a heartbeat before returning to the water. “Yeah. Me too.”

Oh no. I’m drowning in serious trouble.

“Fish on!” Crew shouts, his rod bending dramatically. “It’s a big one!”

Dad moves behind him, guiding his hands. “Easy, buddy. Let him run, then reel back. Keep the tip up.”

“He’s fighting hard! Must be a really good fish!”

“Or a really grumpy fish,” Brett observes. “Some of us don’t like being woken up early.”

Crew’s face shows pure concentration as he follows Dad’s instructions. Brett watches with an expression I can’t read—softer than his usual careful control, as though he’s seeing something surprising him .

“He excels at this,” Brett says.

“Gets it from Dad.”

“What about you?”

“Better at cooking them than catching them. Though I did catch an eighteen-inch red drum when I was twelve. Dad still talks about it.”

“Eighteen inches. Impressive.”

“Good day.” I pause, watching Crew land a small croaker. “This place... these waters... they flow in our blood. Four generations of my family have fished these channels.”

“And now you’re turning that into a business.”

There’s something skeptical in his tone that makes my spine stiffen. “Yes, I am. Problem with that?”

“Just wondering if you’ve thought through the logistics. Seasonal availability, weather delays, minimum orders that might not get met.”

“Of course I’ve thought about it. I’m not some dreamy-eyed optimist who thinks good intentions are enough.”

“Could have fooled me.”

The words sting more than they should. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

But I can’t forget it. Because he does this—makes these little cutting comments suggesting I’m not thinking clearly, then backs away before we can actually fight about it .

“No, say what you were going to say.”

Brett’s jaw tightens. “You really want to do this here?”

“Do what? Have an honest conversation about our business?”

“Fine.” He turns to face me fully. “Sometimes you make decisions based on how you want things to be instead of how they actually are. Like assuming local fishermen will be reliable suppliers just because you have family connections.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it? You’re building your entire supply chain around relationships instead of contracts.”

Heat flares in my chest. “And you think that’s stupid.”

“I think it’s risky.”

“Everything worthwhile is risky, Brett. But I forgot—you prefer safe and cynical.”

“I prefer sustainable and practical.”

“Same thing.”

Another boat approaches, interrupting our standoff. Dad waves at the weathered captain.

“Bill Franklin,” I tell Brett, forcing brightness into my voice. “Dad mentioned him for red snapper.”

“Amber!” Tommy calls as his boat pulls alongside ours. “Heard you’re opening a restaurant. About time this town got decent fish instead of frozen truck deliveries. ”

“My plan exactly,” I call back, shooting Brett a pointed look. “Building relationships with local suppliers.”

“I know these reefs better than my own backyard. You want fish swimming this morning, I’m your guy.”

Another boat joins us—Rachel Morrison with her husband for flounder and clams. Soon three boats tie together, and I’m scribbling notes on a napkin while fishermen quote prices and discuss seasonal availability.

Brett stays close, asking practical questions about delivery schedules and payment terms. His business mode runs sharp and focused, and despite our argument, I have to admit he excels at this part.

“You should try my clam chowder recipe,” I tell him during a lull, an olive branch wrapped in food. “Grandma Pearl’s.”

“If we can establish consistent clam supply,” he says, still in negotiation mode.

“We can. Bill has connections.”

“Verbal promises aren’t contracts.”

And here it comes again. His skeptical tone makes me feel twelve years old, explaining why I need a pet hamster.

“You know what your problem involves?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You think caring about people weakens business.”

“I think mixing emotions with logistics creates problems. ”

“And I think your fear of caring about anything makes you see problems where opportunities exist.”

Brett’s eyes flash. “I care.”

“Do you? Or do you want to control everything so you don’t have to trust anyone?”

The conversation gets interrupted by Dad calling us over for introductions, but the tension simmers between us in the humid air.

The introductions go well despite our underlying conflict. Bill and Rachel seem impressed when Brett asks the right questions about sustainability and pricing, even though his delivery sounds brusque.

“You two seem like good partners,” Rachel says, glancing between us. “Business requires trust.”

I almost laugh. Trust. Right.

As boats prepare to separate, I overhear Dad pull Brett aside.

“Brett,” Dad says in his serious voice. “I want you to know something about my daughter.”

My cheeks warm, but I can’t interrupt without being obvious.

“She’s been through a lot. Her ex-husband never showed up when he said he would. Always had excuses.”

Brett’s jaw tightens. “She deserves better.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I don’t want to see her hurt again. Those kids either.”

I hold my breath, waiting for Brett’s response .

“Mr. Bennett,” Brett says, voice low and steady, “I can’t promise I’ll never make mistakes. But I can promise I’ll never make her feel like she’s not worth showing up for.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest despite our earlier argument. The way he speaks sounds like a vow.

“Good man,” Dad says, clapping Brett’s shoulder. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

T he ride back flows more quietly than the trip out. Crew and Dad discuss the morning’s catch while Mom reads to Mason below deck. Tally helps with navigation, which means she actually pays attention instead of texting friends.

Brett and I stand at the bow, watching Twin Waves harbor grow larger. The tension from our argument has settled into something more manageable, but it lingers.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “What I said about the fishermen... that was unfair.”

“Was it? Or were you just being honest about what you think?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Both, maybe. I do think you lead with your heart sometimes. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Gee, thanks for the ringing endorsement.”

“Amber— ”