Page 37 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWENTY-THREE

AMBER

O n January first, I’m standing in our food truck at dawn, chopping onions like my life depends on it. Which, considering we’re about to serve food to half of Twin Waves at their First Day Beach Walk, might actually be true.

Our permits came through yesterday. When Carol Woods called to apologize and congratulate us, I may have ugly-cried into the phone. Professional business owner, that’s me.

“Remind me why we thought feeding sixty people constituted a good idea?” I ask Brett, who’s been setting up our coffee station since before sunrise.

“Because you excel at this and everyone’s going to love our food,” he says without looking up from the thermos he’s testing. So matter-of-fact. Like doubt never crossed his mind .

After our argument yesterday at the restaurant site, we’ve been dancing around each other with careful politeness. All business, no personal feelings. Which works fine until he says things like this with complete faith in my abilities.

“What if we run out of soup?”

“We won’t.”

“What if the coffee tastes terrible?”

“It doesn’t.”

“What if I accidentally poison everyone and become the woman who ruined New Year’s for the entire town?”

Brett sets down his coffee and approaches, gently taking the knife from my hands before I chop my fingers off. “Hey. Look at me.”

I meet his eyes, and the steady warmth there makes my racing heart slow down. Despite everything unresolved between us, he’s here. Steady. Present.

“What if everything goes perfectly?” he says. “What if this launches everything we’ve dreamed about?”

Mom arrives at ten with what she calls her “church lady brigade.” Three women who look like they could organize the Pentagon if given enough coffee and determination.

“Don’t you worry about anything, sweetheart,” says Margaret, who runs half the volunteer organizations in a three-county area. “We’ve been feeding crowds since before you were born.”

By eleven-thirty, we’re set up at the beach pavilion. The morning delivers one of those perfect January days that makes you remember why people fall in love with coastal North Carolina. Crisp air, brilliant sunshine, and light that makes everything look like a postcard.

About fifty people gather for the walk—families with kids bundled in winter coats, older couples holding hands, college students home for the holidays. When Maggie Denton announces The Salty Pearl will have hot food waiting, actual cheers erupt.

“We’re really doing this,” I whisper to Brett as the group heads toward the water.

“We’re really doing this,” he agrees, squeezing my hand.

For twenty blissful minutes, everything flows perfectly. The clam chowder smells divine. The fish tacos achieve golden perfection. Grandma Pearl’s hush puppies could win awards. I’m mentally planning our grand opening menu when my phone rings.

Unknown number. Never a good sign.

“Hello?”

“Amber Bennett? This is Dr. Ellswood from the county health department.”

My stomach drops to my toes. “Yes?”

“I’m calling about your food service operation. We’ve received a complaint regarding unsafe food handling practices.”

The world tilts sideways. “What kind of complaint?”

“Anonymous report about potential contamination issues. I’m required to shut down your operation immediately pending investigation.”

“But we received our permits yesterday?—”

“I understand this creates inconvenience, but we take all food safety reports seriously. The complaint specifically mentioned today’s event.”

I sink onto a cooler, my legs suddenly made of jelly. “How long will an investigation take?”

“Could be several days to weeks. We’ll need to inspect your entire operation, test equipment, and review procedures.”

Days to weeks. The beach walkers will return in fifteen minutes expecting hot chowder, and I have to tell them we can’t serve anything. The town council considering us for regular catering will think we’re unreliable. Our restaurant opening next week will have to be canceled.

Everything we’ve worked for. Gone.

“I understand,” I manage. “We’ll shut down immediately.”

Brett reaches me before I finish hanging up. “What’s wrong?”

“Health department. Anonymous complaint about food safety. We have to stop serving. Now.”

Color drains from his face. No beach walk service. No grand opening. No catering contract. Possibly no restaurant at all.

“This has Chad written all over it,” he says grimly .

“Or Penelope.” But it’s probably my ex, who couldn’t stand watching me actually succeed and probably spent his morning crafting the perfect complaint to destroy everything right when it was going right.

“What do we tell everyone?” I gesture helplessly toward the beach where fifty hungry people expect us to feed them.

Brett runs his hands through his hair, looking as devastated as I feel. “I don’t know.”

Mom appears beside us like she has radar for family crises. “What’s happened?”

“Health department complaint,” I say numbly. “We can’t serve food. Anonymous tip about safety violations.”

Margaret overhears and marches over. “Absolute nonsense. I’ve watched you work—everything’s cleaner than my own kitchen.”

But nonsense or not, we’re shut down. The happy beach walkers are starting to return, rosy-cheeked and energized, and I have to crush their expectations.

“We’ll fight this,” Brett says fiercely, taking my hand. “Whatever it takes.”

“Will fighting be enough?” My voice cracks. “Brett, if we can’t prove we’re safe, we lose everything. Who’s going to trust us after this?”

Before he can answer, Maggie Denton reaches us, glowing from the walk. “Perfect timing! The chowder smells amazing. ”

“Maggie,” I start, my throat tight. “I’m so sorry, but we can’t serve food today. There’s been a situation with the health department.”

Her smile dies. “What kind of situation?”

“Anonymous complaint about food safety. We’re shut down pending investigation.”

I watch disappointment replace excitement on her face. Other walkers gather now, hearing pieces of our conversation. I see confusion, concern, and worst of all—doubt creeping into faces trusting us moments ago.

“This is ridiculous,” Maggie says immediately. “Your operation runs spotless.”

But damage spreads like spilled oil. People whisper now. Maybe we really aren’t as safe as we thought and the anonymous tipster was right.

A familiar silver sedan glides into the parking lot like a shark circling wounded prey.

Chad Peterson steps out wearing an expensive wool coat and the kind of smile that used to charm me but now makes my skin crawl. He approaches our group with the confidence of a man who holds all the cards.

“Heard there were… complications with the food truck,” he announces, voice carrying across the pavilion. “Such a shame when amateur operations can’t meet basic safety standards.”

The pieces slam together with sickening clarity. Chad didn’t simply file the complaint—he timed his arrival to watch our public humiliation .

Brett steps forward, his entire body coiled with protective fury. “You did this.”

“I reported legitimate safety concerns,” Chad says smoothly. “As any responsible citizen would do.”

“Based on what?” Brett’s voice turns dangerously quiet, and I can see him struggling to control his temper.

“Based on what I observed during my previous visit. Questionable temperature controls, unsafe storage, contamination risks.” Each word delivers a calculated blow designed to destroy our reputation. “I’d hate for anyone to get sick.”

“You’re lying,” I say, but even to me my voice sounds weak.

“Prove it,” Chad challenges with his familiar smirk. “Oh wait—you can’t. Because you’re shut down.”

I feel everything crumbling—the restaurant opening, the catering opportunities, and the life Brett and I were building. Worst of all, I see doubt in some faces around us—people who don’t know us well enough to be certain Chad’s lying.

But then Chad makes his biggest mistake yet. He steps closer to me, his hand reaching out like he’s going to touch my arm in some mockery of comfort.

“You know, Amber, if you’d listen to me from the beginning?—”

Brett moves.

I’ve never seen him like this. One second he’s standing beside me, jaw tight with barely controlled rage, and the next he’s inserting himself between Chad and me with the kind of lethal grace that reminds me he spent years in the military.

“Don’t.” The word comes out low and dangerous, and Chad’s hand freezes mid-reach. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

Chad tries to play it off with a laugh, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Relax, Walker. We’re talking.”

“No, we’re not.” Brett’s voice could cut glass. “You filed a false complaint to sabotage her business.”

My heart does something complicated watching Brett defend me like this. Part gratitude, part swooning, part terror—this confrontation makes everything worse.

“I think you’re misunderstanding the situation,” Chad says, but his confident mask starts slipping.

“I understand perfectly.” Brett’s stance stays protective but controlled. “You can’t stand that she’s building something without you. So you’re trying to tear her down.”

Despite the nightmare unfolding around us, Brett Walker defending me makes my chest flutter. Which probably isn’t the appropriate response when my business dies in real time.

Chad’s face flushes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about?—”

“Back off,” Brett says quietly, and something in his tone makes Chad take a step backward. “Walk away. ”

But the whispers are starting.

Maybe there really is something wrong with their operation.

Why else would someone file a complaint?

Anonymous tips usually have some basis in fact.

Chad sees it too. His smile returns, sharp and satisfied. “The truth has a way of coming out, doesn’t it?”

“What truth?” Brett demands, but Chad’s already turning away.

“Enjoy explaining to everyone why their New Year’s breakfast got canceled,” Chad says over his shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll understand it wasn’t your fault.”

He walks back to his car with a swagger.

Even with Brett standing beside me like a protective wall, even with Margaret muttering about spite and lies, I can feel the crowd’s energy shifting.

They’re hungry. They’re disappointed. And they’re starting to wonder if maybe, possibly, there really was something wrong with our food.

“ F olks,” Mom calls out, trying to salvage the situation. “I’m sure this constitutes a misunderstanding?—”

“Of course it does,” Margaret adds firmly. “Anyone can see these young people run a clean operation.”

But doubt spreads like a virus. Once it starts, good intentions can’t stop it. I watch faces in the crowd, see questions forming. The careful distance people put between themselves and our suddenly-suspicious food truck.

Brett takes my hand, squeezing gently. “We’ll figure this out.”

I want to believe him. I want to lean into his strength and let him fix this like he fixed the coffee machine and the wobbly table and every other problem. But this isn’t something that can be solved with the right tools and steady hands.

This is our reputation and future. Everything we’ve worked for, unraveling in front of fifty witnesses.

“I know you will,” Dad says, appearing at my other side. “This is a setback.”

A setback. Right. The kind of setback that destroys small businesses before they can get started. The kind that makes people remember your name for all the wrong reasons.

“We should probably start packing up,” I say quietly, my voice sounding strange and distant. “Since we can’t serve anything.”

Brett’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t over.”

But it feels over. Standing here watching Chad’s taillights disappear, surrounded by disappointed faces and whispered doubts, it feels very, very over.

The beach walkers begin to disperse, some heading to their cars, others walking toward town to find breakfast elsewhere. A few stop to offer words of support, but I can see the wariness in their eyes now. The questions they’re too polite to ask.

What if the complaint was justified?

What if we really were cutting corners?

What if they almost got food poisoning from our “unsafe” operation?

“Amber.” Brett’s voice pulls me back to the moment. “Look at me.”

I do, and there’s something fierce and determined there that makes my chest tight.

“We’re going to fight this,” he says. “Whatever it takes. But right now, we need to focus on damage control.”

Damage control. Business terms for the death of a dream.

“Right,” I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. “Pack everything up. Call the health department to schedule their inspection. Figure out how to explain this to everyone who was counting on us.”

Like the catering contract we’ll definitely lose now. The restaurant opening we’ll have to postpone indefinitely. The investors who’ll hear about this and run the other direction .

But I don’t say any of that. Because Brett’s standing there looking at me like I hung the moon, and Mom’s already organizing the church ladies to help us pack up.

“Come on, dear,” Margaret says, patting my shoulder with gentleness. “Let’s get this sorted. Sometimes the best action you can take is facing the storm head-on.”

I wish I had her confidence. “Right now, facing the storm feels like walking into a hurricane with nothing but an umbrella.”

“Then we face this together. Whatever our personal stuff is, we’re partners in this business. And nobody destroys our business on my watch.”

The fierce protectiveness in his voice does things to my heart I’m not ready to examine. But standing here in the wreckage of our New Year’s debut, I’m grateful he’s choosing to stay and fight instead of running like his fears told him to.

Even if everything else between us remains uncertain, at least I know Brett Walker doesn’t abandon ship when storms hit.

Some New Year’s Day this is turning out to be.

But maybe, with the right partner, even disasters can be survived.