Page 39 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWENTY-FIVE

AMBER

I ’m staring at my phone at three AM like it might spontaneously develop the ability to time travel and let me take back yesterday’s spectacular emotional meltdown.

I keep replaying the devastated look on Brett’s face when I drove away from the beach pavilion. But I had to leave to protect him from the disaster tornado following me everywhere I go.

Except... did I really? Or did I just panic and run because facing problems together felt scarier than facing them alone?

At four, I give up on sleep entirely and shuffle downstairs in my ridiculous fuzzy socks—the ones with tiny tacos on them Mason picked out because he said they looked “happy.” Right now they’re the only happy things in my house .

The kitchen feels smaller in the pre-dawn darkness, but Grandma Pearl’s recipe tin sits on the counter like a beacon of hope. I flip it open with hands refusing to stop shaking.

Her handwriting stares back at me—careful measurements for Sunday pot roast and her famous chocolate chess pie. She never second-guessed herself. Never wondered if loving another meant putting them in danger.

Then again, she also never had to deal with stalkers with cameras. But she did have to deal with Grandpa Earl’s stubborn streak and his tendency to bottle up every emotion known to mankind. She used to say the secret to loving a grumpy man was remembering the heart underneath all the gruff.

I trace her lemon pie recipe, the one Brett helped me make when everything was simple and our biggest worry was whether the meringue would hold its peaks. Back when I thought the hardest part of starting over would be learning to trust myself again.

Turns out the hardest part involves learning that love means staying, not running.

By six-thirty, the house starts its daily symphony of controlled mayhem. Mason appears first, stumbling down the stairs in dinosaur pajamas with hair looking like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He climbs into my lap without a word, still radiating perfect sleepy-kid warmth .

“Morning, sunshine,” I whisper against his messy hair.

“Can we make pancakes?” he asks, voice muffled against my shoulder.

I force brightness into my voice. “Sure, sweetheart.”

“Really? With chocolate chips?”

“Absolutely with chocolate chips. Everything’s better with chocolate chips.”

Mason pulls back to study my face with those serious brown eyes. “You look sad, Mama. But also not-sad. It’s confusing.”

Smart kid. “Sometimes grown-ups feel lots of things at once. But the not-sad part is winning.”

“Good. The not-sad part is my favorite.”

The next hour unfolds in the usual controlled pandemonium of breakfast negotiations and missing socks, but I find myself humming while I flip pancakes. Even in the middle of this mess, there’s still chocolate chips and Mason’s giggles and the possibility of fixing what I broke yesterday.

“When’s Brett coming to my fishing tournament Saturday?” Crew asks, inhaling chocolate chip pancakes at record speed.

“I’m not sure, honey. We had a disagreement yesterday.”

“About what?”

How do you explain adult relationship fears to a kid? “Sometimes people get scared and make dumb decisions. I made a dumb decision.”

“So fix it,” he says with the simple logic of childhood. “That’s what you tell us to do.”

“You’re absolutely right. I should fix it.”

Tally appears in the kitchen doorway looking annoyingly perfect for someone who rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. She takes one look at my face and tilts her head.

“You look different this morning,” she says, pouring orange juice with teenage precision.

“Different how?”

“Less like Netflix canceled your favorite series. More like you’re prepared to take matters into your own hands and watch a romcom instead.”

Perceptive kid. Too perceptive. “What if I told you I was thinking about calling Brett?”

“I’d say it’s about time. The man bought us a twelve-pack of sidewalk chalk yesterday because Mason mentioned wanting to draw hopscotch courts. He’s not going anywhere, Mom.”

“How do you know about the sidewalk chalk?”

“He left it on the porch with a note saying he hoped we’d have fun with it. Very grumpy-guy way of saying he cares.”

My heart does that fluttery thing. Because she’s right. Brett doesn’t say romantic things easily, but he shows up. He pays attention. He buys sidewalk chalk for kids who aren’t even his.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say.

“I’m always right. It’s my gift.”

T he school drop-off fills me with determination instead of dread.

Crew keeps asking when Brett’s coming back, but now his questions feel hopeful instead of heartbreaking.

Mason wants to show Brett his hopscotch court design.

Tally reminds me Brett’s probably sitting somewhere being grumpy about everything instead of talking about his feelings like a normal person.

“So maybe,” she says as I drop her off, “you should be the one who talks about feelings. Since you’re good at that.”

By the time I wave goodbye to Mason’s kindergarten class, I feel like the mother who’s about to fight for what matters instead of running from it.

I’m sitting in the school parking lot gathering courage when my phone rings. Brett’s name lights up the screen, and my traitorous heart does the fluttery thing it always does.

This time, I answer on the second ring.

“Hi,” I say .

“Hi.” His voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t slept either. “How are you?”

“Terrible. You?”

“Same.” A pause. “I’ve been sitting in my truck outside Home Depot for an hour trying to figure out what to say.”

“Home Depot?”

“Security cameras. For your cottage. Someone’s been stalking my...” He stops. “Someone’s been stalking you. Figured you should have cameras.”

Even when he’s hurt and probably furious with me, he’s buying security equipment to keep me safe. Classic grumpy Brett, showing love through practical actions instead of pretty words.

“You don’t have to do things,” I say softly.

“Yeah, I do.” His voice gets gruff. “Can’t exactly protect you if you won’t let me near you.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“From what? People taking pictures? Fake health complaints? You think I can’t handle some idiot with a camera?”

“From me,” I whisper. “And my mess and everything that goes wrong when people get close to me.”

The silence stretches so long I start wondering if the call dropped.

“Brett?”

“You want to know what I think?” His voice carries that edge he gets when he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret.

“Tell me.”

“I think you’re scared. I think running away feels safer than staying and fighting. And I think you’re wrong about being a mess.”

“But the stalker, the health department, Chad?—”

“Are problems we solve together. Not reasons to give up.”

“What if I mess this up again? What if I’m not brave enough?”

“Then I’ll be brave enough for both of us until you catch up.

” The words come out gruff but certain. “Because I’m not going anywhere, Amber.

Even when you drive me crazy. Even when you make decisions without talking to me first. Even when you try to protect me from things I don’t need protecting from. ”

Tears start in my eyes, but they’re the good kind. The kind coming from hope instead of fear. “I love you, Brett Walker. Your grumpy morning face and your practical solutions and the way you buy sidewalk chalk without making a big deal about it.”

“You saw the chalk.”

“Tally told me. She also said you’re probably sitting somewhere being grumpy about feelings instead of talking about them.”

“Smart kid. ”

“The smartest. So maybe we should talk about feelings.”

Another pause. “I love you too. There. Feelings.”

I’m laughing now, really laughing, because this is so perfectly Brett. Gruff and practical and wonderful. “That’s it? That’s your big feelings talk?”

“Would you prefer a sonnet?”

“I’d prefer you.”

“Good. Because I already bought the cameras.”

“Come home, Brett. Let’s install security cameras and be brave together.”

“On my way.”

W hen I get home, Brett’s truck sits in my driveway and he’s on the porch with enough security equipment to guard a military installation. He looks up when I park, and something in his expression shifts from wary to hopeful.

“Ready to fight back?” he asks, which is probably the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.

I walk up those porch steps and kiss him, right there in broad daylight where anyone could see. Where any hypothetical stalker with a camera can take all the pictures they want .

“Ready,” I say against his lips. “But first, can I say something?”

“Shoot.”

“Yesterday I got scared and I ran. But running away from good things because bad things might happen is the dumbest strategy ever invented. And I’m done being dumb about this.”

Brett’s mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile. “You calling yourself dumb?”

“Temporarily dumb. Love-induced temporary dumbness. It’s apparently a real condition.”

“Must be contagious. I spent four hours last night researching security systems instead of just driving over here and demanding you talk to me.”

“Very grumpy-guy way of handling emotions.”

“I’m working on it.”

I cup his face in my hands, looking at this wonderful, stubborn, protective man who buys security cameras at dawn because someone threatened the woman he loves. “Don’t work too hard. I happen to like grumpy guys who show they care by solving problems.”

“Good,” he says, pulling me closer. “Because I’ve got about seventeen more problems to solve before lunch.”

“Such as?”

“Making sure you never feel unsafe in your own home. Making sure whoever’s been following us knows they picked the wrong people to mess with. Making sure your kids know I’m not going anywhere.”

“And after lunch?”

“After lunch, we’re going to figure out how to get our restaurant reopened and our reputation restored. Together.”

I kiss him again, long and sweet and full of promises about facing whatever comes next as a team. When we break apart, we’re both smiling.

“So,” I say, surveying the security equipment scattered across my porch. “How many cameras does one small cottage actually need?”

“According to my research? All of them.”

“Very thorough.”

“I’m a thorough guy.”

“You’re my thorough guy.”

“Yeah,” he says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. “I am.”

Because some things are worth fighting for.

And this man, this life, this love we’re building together?

This is definitely worth the fight.