Page 40 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWENTY-SIX

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A s I pull into the parking lot of The Salty Pearl, morning light glints off the pristine windows.

A month has passed since I installed those security cameras at Amber’s house. Permits have cleared, construction crews finished on schedule, and Chad’s threats faded to background noise. Amber and I found our rhythm as business partners and something deeper.

Valentine’s Day came and went with a quiet dinner at her kitchen table after the kids went to bed—us talking about menu changes and Spring Break opening strategies while sharing a bottle of wine. She fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, and I knew we’d turned some invisible corner.

Now Spring Break season is a week away, and we’re ready .

“You’re early,” Amber says as I walk through the front door, but she’s smiling. She has that glow she gets when everything’s falling into place.

“Wanted to do one final walkthrough before the crew arrives for kitchen prep.”

She nods toward the dining room. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

I step into the space we’ve dreamed about for months, and my chest tightens.

It’s perfect.

The main dining room feels warm and welcoming, with tables made from weathered wood Jack sourced from an old fishing boat.

The walls showcase our planned fishing community displays: black and white photos of Twin Waves’ fleet through the decades, rotating exhibits featuring different families’ traditions.

Mrs. Sanders’ knitting club has a corner dedicated to their monthly meetings, complete with a bulletin board covered in colorful announcements.

The bar really gets me. Amber designed it to resemble the bow of a fishing boat, complete with rope details and weathered wood. Behind it, shelves display local pottery and glassware from artists around town.

“What do you think?” Amber appears beside me, wiping paint from her hands.

“You’re going to change this town.”

“ We’re going to change this town,” she corrects, bumping my shoulder with hers in a way that makes me forget how words work.

I follow her into the kitchen, trying not to notice how her hair smells of vanilla. The space is gleaming and professional, with equipment that works and counters spacious enough for serious cooking. The walk-in cooler hums quietly, already stocked with local suppliers’ sample products.

“The health department gave us our final approval yesterday,” Amber says, running her hand along the stainless steel prep counter. “Perfect scores across the board.”

“And the liquor license?”

“Came through Tuesday. We’re officially legal to serve everything on our menu.” She does a little victory dance involving way too much hip action for my concentration levels.

I lean against what I assume is the counter to observe her celebrate, but it’s the industrial dishwasher. The door swings open. I lose my balance completely and fall backward into the machine. My legs stick out at weird angles, and there’s a spray nozzle jabbing me in the ribs.

“Brett!” Amber rushes over, attempting not to laugh as she helps extract me from kitchen equipment. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I grunt, trying to maintain some dignity while untangling myself from the dishwasher’s interior. “Testing the structural integrity.”

“Of course you were.” She fails at hiding her grin. “Very thorough inspection process.”

I finally stand, and my shirt is soaking wet from the spray nozzle and clinging to me in ways that make Amber’s eyes go wide.

“I should probably change.”

“Yeah, you should,” she agrees, then seems to realize she’s staring and turns bright red.

We both stand there for a moment, me dripping dishwater and her studying anything but my wet shirt, until I clear my throat.

“So, about those gas connections,” I say, moving carefully away from any machinery that might try to swallow me whole.

I open the freezer, check the fryer temperature, and test the gas connections while maintaining distance from appliances that might swallow me. Everything’s exactly as it should be, except for my focus when she’s nearby and my apparent inability to lean against objects without falling.

“Fire suppression system?”

“Tested and certified.” She opens a cabinet displaying organized shelves of plates and glasses. “Justin finished the last of the electrical work yesterday. We’re completely ready.”

We walk back into the dining room. I can picture it filled with families, couples on date nights, the fishing crew coming in after long days. The community space Amber envisioned, where people can see their stories and feel welcome.

She settles into one of the chairs to test the comfort level. “Soft opening for friends and family this weekend, then we’re live.”

“How are you feeling about it?”

“Terrified. Excited. Ready to throw up or run a marathon.” She grins. “Normal restaurant owner feelings. The marathon would be less scary.”

My phone buzzes with a text.

Crew: Can we see the restaurant before it opens? Mason wants to know if his suggestions made it into the final design.

“The kids want a preview tour,” I tell her.

“Of course they do. Mason’s been asking daily about ‘his’ restaurant. Yesterday he informed me he’s the ‘official taste tester’ and needs to approve everything before we open.” She laughs. “I told him we’d do a family walkthrough before the soft opening.”

Family. The word still catches me off guard sometimes, how naturally it’s come to include me.

“What about tonight? I could pick up pizza, we could have dinner here. Let them see everything finished.”

“They’d love it.” She pauses, studying my face in a way that makes me want to check if I have something in my teeth. “You appear different when you’re in here.”

“Different how?”

“Happy. Really, genuinely happy instead of your usual charming grumpiness.”

“I don’t have charming grumpiness.”

“Brett Walker, you absolutely have charming grumpiness. It’s your signature move. Very brooding hero meets friendly neighborhood contractor.” She steps closer, and I automatically step back directly into the rope detail on the bar.

The decorative rope catches my boot, and suddenly I’m doing some kind of awkward backward dance, arms windmilling as I try to keep my balance.

Amber reaches out to steady me, which only makes things worse because now we’re both tangled in nautical décor, her hands on my chest, my arm around her waist, faces inches apart.

“This is not how I imagined testing the bar area,” I mutter.

“Really? Because this seems very on-brand for you,” she says, slightly breathless. “First the dishwasher, now maritime equipment. Are you planning to personally inspect every piece of furniture by falling into it?”

We’re still tangled together, and I’m acutely aware that her lips are close to mine and she smells of vanilla and determination. My face is probably the color of a stop sign.

“It’s a thorough quality control process,” I say weakly.

“Uh-huh.” But she’s not pulling away, and neither am I, and for a moment the only sound is the hum of the walk-in cooler and my heart doing something that can’t possibly be medically advisable.

Before I can respond, my phone rings. The caller ID makes my stomach drop.

Chad’s lawyer.

Amber sees the name, and her expression immediately shifts from playful to guarded. All that happiness, that excitement about our finished space, disappears behind walls I thought we’d torn down.

“Don’t answer it,” she says quietly.

“He’ll keep calling.”

“Then let him. Maybe he’ll get bored and find a new hobby. Competitive knitting or extreme birdwatching.”

But I’m already accepting the call, because avoiding Chad hasn’t worked so far.

“Mr. Walker? I’m calling with a final offer from my client.”

“We’re not interested in any offers.”

“You should hear this one. Mr. Peterson is prepared to drop all legal challenges and provide positive references to local suppliers if Ms. Bennett agrees to a consulting partnership. ”

“What kind of consulting partnership?”

“Twenty-five percent of profits in exchange for his marketing expertise and local connections. He’s built relationships in this community that could be very valuable to a new restaurant.”

My jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack. “She doesn’t need his connections.”

“My client has many friends in the local business community. It would be unfortunate if Ms. Bennett found herself facing... complications.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Simply that business can be unpredictable. Permits get delayed, suppliers have issues, reviews can be harsh. My client’s support could prevent such unfortunate circumstances.”

The line goes dead, and I’m left standing there wanting to throw my phone through the beautiful windows we installed.

Amber’s studying me with an expression I haven’t seen since January. That careful blankness she uses when she’s expecting the world to fall apart.

“What did he want?”

I tell her about the offer, the thinly veiled threats, the deadline. With every word, she retreats into herself.

“Twenty-five percent,” she says quietly.

“We’re not considering it.”

“Aren’t we?” She stands, walking to the window that overlooks the harbor. “Brett, we’re a week from opening. If he starts a campaign against us now...”

“Then we fight back.”

“With what? Good intentions and my legendary stress-baking skills?”

“With the truth. With this.” I gesture around the beautiful space we’ve created. “With the fact that everyone in this town knows what kind of man Chad is.”

“Do they? Because from where I’m standing, he appears to be a successful businessman offering to help his poor, struggling ex-wife’s cute little restaurant project.”

The defeat in her voice makes my chest ache. “Amber?—”

“Maybe I should take the deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s money, Brett. And if it means we can open without him turning this into some kind of small-town war...”

“It’s not about money. It’s you giving him power over something you built. Something we built together.” I step closer, and doubt battles determination in her eyes. “I refuse to let that man profit off your grandmother’s recipes.”

She turns to face me, and the war plays out behind her eyes. The same war that’s been raging since I met her: between the woman who dreams big and the woman who’s learned that people destroy beautiful things because they can.

“What if you’re wrong?” she asks quietly. “What if I bet everything on us, and we lose it all anyway?”

“Then we lose it fighting for something we believe in instead of handing it over to someone who thinks he can bully his way into everything you’ve worked for.”

“And what about the kids? What about their future if this fails?”

“What about their future if you teach them that giving in to bullies is easier than standing up for what’s right?”

The words are harsh, but they’re true. They hit their mark because her eyes fill with tears she’s trying not to cry.

“I need time to consider,” she says.

“How much time?”

“Until the soft opening. I’ll give him my answer then.”

I have three days to convince the woman I love that some risks are worth taking and prove we’re worth fighting for.

“Okay,” I say, because what else can I do? “But Amber? Don’t let him steal this moment from you. Survey what you’ve accomplished. Don’t let his threats make you forget how incredible this is. ”

She does survey the space around us, and for a moment, the pride and joy return to her expression. The recognition of what we’ve built together.

“It is pretty incredible,” she admits.

“The best project I’ve ever been part of.”

“Even if it all falls apart?”

“Even then. Because at least we’ll know we tried. And also because I’ve never been part of anything that involved a boat-shaped bar before, so that’s a life milestone right there.”

Despite everything, she laughs—a small, watery sound that makes my heart do something acrobatic.

My phone buzzes with another text.

Crew: Mom says we can see the restaurant tonight! Mason’s already picked out his favorite table.

I show her the text, and despite everything, she smiles.

“I guess we’d better pick up that pizza,” she says. “Can’t disappoint our first customers. Especially since Mason will probably want to rearrange all the furniture anyway.”

“Does he do that everywhere he goes?”

“Only places he considers ‘his.’ Which, apparently, now includes your restaurant.” She pauses. “Our restaurant.”

“I love the sound of that.”

We lock up the restaurant and head to our cars. Not everything is resolved. We still have Chad’s ultimatum hanging over us. But for the first time in months, I’m not afraid of what might happen.

Because whatever comes next, we built something beautiful together. And that’s worth fighting for.

Even if I have to be grumpy about it.