Page 41 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWENTY-SEVEN

AMBER

T he aqua dress hangs on my bedroom door. Tonight is our soft opening—friends and family only—and in ninety-three minutes, I’m supposed to smile and celebrate while my stomach churns over Chad’s ultimatum.

Give him my answer tonight. As if our dream coming true should be the backdrop for potentially signing it away.

Brett sent the sweetest good morning text—something about being proud of what we’ve built together. Normal humans would text back immediately. Maybe add a heart emoji.

Instead, I’m sitting in my bathrobe having what my therapist would probably call “an episode.” My brain’s conducting a parade of disasters.

What if Chad shows up tonight to demand his answer?

What if I have to choose between my family’s future and watching Brett walk away?

What if signing over twenty-five percent is the only way to protect what matters most?

My phone buzzes.

Hazel: Please tell me you’re getting ready and not having a breakdown.

How does she do this?

Me: I’m completely fine and definitely not overthinking anything.

Hazel: The most overthinking response you could have given.

Hazel: I’m coming over.

Before I can type a protest, the front door bangs open downstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of mayhem approaching.

“Emergency best friend intervention!” Hazel’s voice carries up the stairs. “Nobody panic!”

“Why is Miss Hazel yelling about emergencies?” Mason appears in my doorway wearing his button-down shirt. His collar is wrinkled, and there’s a stain on his khakis I’m choosing not to investigate.

Four-year-old boys and nice clothes. What was I considering?

“Because she considers everything an emergency,” I say, pulling him onto the bed for a snuggle. He smells of toothpaste and sunshine.

“You appear very handsome, sweetheart.”

“Crew helped me with my buttons, but they’re really hard.” He touches his shirt with pride. “He said I appeared ‘presentable.’”

Crew and his vocabulary. This kid swallowed a dictionary.

“Very presentable,” I agree.

Hazel appears in the doorway carrying what resembles a tackle box, except it contains enough makeup to supply a theater production.

“Oh, sweetie. You’ve got the deer-in-headlights expression.”

“I do not have an expression.”

She plops down beside me, unpacking cosmetics. “Amber, you’re sitting in your underwear thirty-seven minutes before your restaurant’s soft opening. Definitely an expression.”

Mason pats my arm with the kind of sympathy usually reserved for wounded animals. “It’s okay, Mama. Sometimes I don’t want to wear fancy clothes either.”

This kid gets it.

“See?” Hazel waves a mascara wand. “Even Mason recognizes you’re spiraling.”

Fine. Maybe I’m spiraling. A little.

“Want to talk about it while I perform miracles with concealer?”

“Can you go check on your brothers?” I ask Tally. “Make sure they haven’t gotten into anything... creative?”

The last time I left them unsupervised for ten minutes, Crew tried to “improve” the bathroom faucet with a screwdriver and Mason decided to give himself a haircut. Never again.

Tally sighs with full-blown teenage exasperation. “Okay.” She gets up and leaves.

I flop backward onto the bed like the dramatic mess I apparently am.

“I’m making a terrible mistake.”

“About Brett or about the restaurant? Because honey, tonight is going to be magical.”

“About believing this could work out. About letting myself fall for him when my life is mayhem and legal threats fueled by caffeine and stubbornness.”

Hazel starts applying concealer to my under-eye circles with professional efficiency. “Okay, we’re multitasking. Makeup and emotional crisis management. Tell me what’s really happening.”

So I spill everything. About Chad’s settlement offer demanding twenty-five percent of the restaurant.

About Brett’s promise to fight alongside me when I don’t even know if we can win.

About how my kids have started making plans featuring Brett in our future.

About how absolutely terrified I am of trusting a man with our hearts again, especially when the stakes keep getting higher.

“And the really pathetic part,” I finish, “is I’m completely, hopelessly gone over him. ”

“Pathetic?” Hazel pauses her mascara application to stare at me. “Honey, you sailed past ‘gone’ weeks ago. You’re in full-blown, humming-while-you-cook happy territory.”

Wait. I’ve been humming?

“Am I that obvious?”

“You cleaned your baseboards yesterday. Voluntarily. With a toothbrush.”

Okay, concerning.

“But what if?—”

“Nope.” She waves her mascara wand. “No spiraling allowed. You can worry yourself into paralysis, or you can choose to believe good events happen to people who deserve them.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re marrying a man who built you a house and runs a successful business.”

“I almost lost him by worrying myself out of happiness.” Her voice gets serious. “You know what changed everything?”

“Therapy?”

“I decided I was worth fighting for. My happiness wasn’t selfish. I deserved love that shows up and stays.”

Before I can absorb this revelation, disaster strikes downstairs. It sounds like someone’s filming an action movie in my living room.

“ Mason !” Tally’s shout cuts through the house. “ What did you do ?”

Oh no.

Another crash. Then Crew’s voice: “It’s not terrible! We can probably fix it!”

Famous last words in the Bennett household.

“They’re being helpful,” I groan, standing up. “This is going to be bad.”

We race downstairs to find my living room transformed. Silver and gold sparkles cover everything—the couch, the coffee table, the walls, the ceiling like a disco ball exploded.

In the middle stands Mason, wearing his button-down shirt and enough sparkles to blind aircraft, holding an empty jar.

“I wanted to make restaurant confetti,” he announces proudly. “But the jar was really full.”

“Mason,” I say slowly, “what happened to the jar?”

“It jumped!”

“Jars don’t jump, Mason,” Tally says, brushing sparkles off her dress. “You got excited and squeezed too hard.”

“I was being very careful! But then Crew sneezed and scared me!”

“My sneeze was completely normal,” Crew protests. “You’re easily startled.”

My living room resembles the scene of a festive crime. My kids are covered head to toe in sparkles.

And you know what?

I start laughing .

Not the hysterical kind leading to padded rooms, but real, honest, from-the-belly laughter.

“You know what?” I say, and joy bubbles up in my voice. “We embrace it. We’re going to be the most memorable restaurant opening in Twin Waves history.”

“Really?” Mason asks, his whole face lighting up.

“Really. Sometimes the best stories start with the biggest disasters.”

“But, Mom,” Tally says, examining her glitter-covered reflection in the hallway mirror, “we appear to have lost a fight with a craft store.”

“And won,” Crew adds cheerfully. “We definitely won.”

Twenty-two minutes later, we’re in the car, running late but sparkling. Despite our cleanup efforts—frantic vacuuming while Tally held Mason hostage in the bathroom—we’re still shedding glitter with every movement.

“I appear to be a mermaid,” Tally announces, checking herself in the rearview mirror.

“I resemble a space robot,” Crew adds with scientific satisfaction.

“I resemble a person who needs to learn how to say no to kids with artistic vision,” I mutter, but I’m grinning.

The truth is, I love us like this. Ridiculous and running late and covered in craft supplies, but together. Driving toward our dream with hearts full of hope and anxiety.

Maybe courage resembles this. Not perfect Instagram moments, but real life with all its beautiful mayhem.

My phone buzzes.

Brett: Can’t wait to see you and the restaurant filled with people who love you.

I glance down at my sparkle-enhanced appearance and actually snort.

Me: About tonight...

Brett: ?

Me: Let’s say Mason had some creative ideas about celebration decorations.

Brett: Should I be worried?

Me: Only if you’re allergic to glitter.

Brett: Not afraid of anything when it comes to you.

My heart does the ridiculous fluttery action it’s been doing lately, and for once, I don’t try to talk myself out of it. I don’t analyze it or build walls around it or worry about what could go wrong.

I let myself feel it.

Maybe good events really are allowed to happen to me. Maybe I have to be brave enough to believe I deserve them.

When we arrive at The Salty Pearl, the sight takes my breath away. Brett has strung warm white lights around the entrance, and soft music drifts from inside. Through the windows, familiar faces are gathering—my parents, Brett’s mom, Jack and Hazel, and Jack’s parents.

It’s perfect. The kind of scene that makes you believe in dreams coming true, even when your heart feels fragile and hopeful.

When I spot Brett standing near the entrance in his navy button-down, appearing like he stepped out of every romantic dream I’ve ever had, my resolve dissolves.

“Mom,” Tally says as we climb out of the car, “Staring is weird.”

Embarrassing but accurate.

“I am not staring.”

“You are,” Crew agrees. “It’s obvious.”

“Can we focus on the restaurant, please?”

But as we walk toward the entrance, leaving an actual trail of sparkles on the sidewalk behind us like the world’s most extra breadcrumbs, Brett watches me. When our eyes meet across the distance, he smiles.

Not any smile. The smile saying he sees me—really sees me—covered in craft store carnage and still somehow considers me worth everything.

And for the first time all day, instead of panic, I feel something that might be pure joy.

The evening flows beautifully. Almost perfectly.

Our friends and family fill the dining room with laughter and conversation, testing our menu and marveling at the fishing displays on the walls.

Dad spends twenty minutes telling anyone who’ll listen about the photo of his grandfather’s boat from 1952.

Mom tears up when she sees Grandma Rose’s recipe featured on a special display.

The kids race between tables, Mason proudly explaining to everyone that this is “his” restaurant and he’s the “official taste tester.” Crew demonstrates proper fishing knot techniques to Mrs. Sanders, who pretends to understand.

Even Tally seems happy, taking pictures with her friends and posting them with captions like “My mom is basically a boss.”

I’m standing behind the bar, observing Brett effortlessly charm my father while simultaneously keeping an eye on Mason’s sugar intake, when my phone buzzes.

Chad.

My blood goes cold as I read the text: Hope tonight is going well. Still waiting for your answer. Don’t keep me waiting much longer.

“Everything okay?” Brett appears beside me, his hand warm on my lower back.

I show him the text, and his jaw tightens.

“He doesn’t get to ruin this,” Brett says quietly. “Not tonight.”

“But what if?—”

“No what-ifs. Survey this, Amber. Survey what you’ve created. ”

The dining room is full of people I love, eating food I’ve prepared, celebrating something I’ve built from nothing.

Mason is teaching Ellen the proper way to eat fish and chips. “You have to make the ketchup into a little pool, see?”

Crew explains the difference between Pacific and Atlantic fishing techniques to my mother, who’s nodding along like it’s the most fascinating conversation she’s ever had.

This is real. This is mine. This is ours.

“I’m not giving him anything,” I say, the words feeling like a revelation. “Not twenty-five percent, not one dollar, not one more minute of my worry.”

Brett’s smile could power the entire restaurant. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Some items are worth fighting for.”

He pulls me into his arms right there behind the bar, and I don’t care who’s observing. When he kisses me, it tastes of possibility and partnership and the sweet promise of everything we’re going to build together.

When we break apart, I realize something filling me with wonder.

I’m not afraid anymore. I’m excited. Genuinely, completely excited for what comes next.

“So what now?” I whisper against his lips.

“Now we enjoy our party,” Brett murmurs back, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Tomorrow we tell Chad’s lawyer exactly where he can put his settlement offer.”

“And after that?”

“We get ready for our grand opening. We show this whole town what we’re made of.”

I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him again, tasting salt air and confidence and the sweet promise of everything we’re going to create together. When we break apart, I’m breathless and grinning and absolutely certain.

“I’m ready,” I whisper.

“Good,” he says, spinning me around until I’m dizzy with laughter and pure, uncomplicated joy. “Because I have a feeling the best is yet to come.”

As the evening winds down and our loved ones start to head home, each stopping to hug us and rave about the food and the atmosphere and how proud they are, I realize something that takes my breath away.

This isn’t simply a restaurant. It’s a dream made real. It’s proof that sometimes, if you’re brave enough to reach for what you want and lucky enough to find someone willing to reach with you, beautiful events really do happen.

Even the parts with glitter.

And definitely the parts with fighting back.

Tomorrow we face Chad and whatever he throws at us. But tonight, surrounded by love and laughter and the warm glow of success, I’m not worried about tomorrow.

I’m absolutely thrilled about it.