Page 42 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWENTY-EIGHT

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T he line outside The Salty Pearl stretches down the block. Our grand opening exceeds every expectation, and I should be thrilled. The dining room is packed, the kitchen runs smoothly, and half of Twin Waves has shown up to support us.

Instead, I’m standing behind the host station with a knot in my stomach.

Chad’s here.

He walked in twenty minutes ago with a smug smile and what appears to be his new girlfriend—a blonde half his age wearing too much perfume and an expression suggesting she’d rather be anywhere else. They’re sitting at table twelve, right in the center where everyone can see them.

He ordered our most expensive bottle of wine and made a show of studying the menu like he’s a food critic for the New York Times instead of a guy who considers gas station hot dogs fine dining.

But I know why he’s really here. He’s making a statement.

Asserting dominance. Showing the whole town that he’s not going away quietly.

“Brett?” Amber appears beside me, her face flushed from the kitchen heat. She looks beautiful but frazzled, her hair escaping from its ponytail and her apron dusted with flour. “Table six is asking about the fish special, and Mrs. Sanders wants her usual tea even though it’s not on the menu, and?—”

She stops mid-sentence when she follows my gaze to table twelve.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “He actually came.”

“Apparently so.”

Chad catches her staring and raises his wine glass in a mock toast. The gesture is subtle enough that most people would miss it, but the message is clear: I’m not done with you yet.

“He can’t do anything,” I say quietly. “Not here, not with this many witnesses.”

“Can’t he?” Amber’s voice tightens. “He’s here, at our grand opening, making sure everyone knows he still has power over my life.”

She’s not wrong. Every conversation in the dining room has shifted slightly. People are glancing over at Chad’s table, whispering behind their hands, waiting to see what happens next. Our celebration has become the Chad Peterson Show with special guest appearances by his oversized ego.

“Mom!” Mason’s voice cuts through the tension as he races over from the corner table where my mom—who drove up from Georgia for our opening—has been keeping the kids entertained.

“This lady wants to know if you made the fish, and I told her you made everything because you’re the best cook in the world! ”

The lady in question—a food blogger from Wilmington—beams at Mason’s endorsement. “Your son is quite the salesman,” she tells Amber. “I’d love to hear about your inspiration for the menu.”

Amber smiles proudly. “Thank you. The menu is inspired by my grandmother’s recipes and local fishing traditions.”

She slips into professional mode, explaining our sourcing and preparation methods while Mason stands proudly beside her. But tension shows in her shoulders, the way her gaze keeps darting back to Chad’s table.

“Brett.” Crew appears at my elbow, his expression lighting up. “Dad’s here! Did you see? He came to our opening!”

My heart sinks at the excitement in his ten-year-old voice. “Yeah, buddy, I saw.”

“Should I go say hi? Mom’s been really busy with the kitchen, but maybe now that Dad’s here, we could all sit together for a minute.”

This kid has no idea what’s really happening. To him, his father showing up at their restaurant opening is a good thing.

“Let’s see how busy your mom is first,” I tell him gently. “Big opening nights can be pretty crazy.”

“Okay. But I want to show him the fishing displays. I helped choose which photos to use, and there’s one of Grandpa’s boat that Dad might remember.”

Before I can respond, the sound of pots and pans crashing echoes from the kitchen, followed by what I can only describe as creative vocabulary that would make a sailor blush.

“Oh no,” Amber mutters. “That’s Benji, our line cook. He’s been nervous all night.”

We rush toward the kitchen to find Benji standing in the middle of what appears to be a culinary crime scene.

He’s somehow managed to get tangled in the hanging pot rack while trying to reach for a sauté pan.

Pots are scattered across the floor like metallic confetti, and Benji is suspended at an awkward angle, one foot on the prep counter, one hand gripping a ladle like it’s his lifeline.

“Don’t move!” Tally calls from the pastry station, waving a piping bag like she’s directing traffic. At eighteen, she’s become our head pastry chef, and her chocolate lava cakes have already earned three marriage proposals tonight from customers who’ve never even seen her face.

“I wasn’t planning on moving,” Benji replies through gritted teeth. “I’m currently being held hostage by kitchen equipment.”

“How did you even—” Tally starts, then shakes her head. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I’m too busy making sure my soufflés don’t collapse from the sound effects.”

“I reached for the pan, and the hook caught my apron. I tried to duck, and somehow physics decided to have a laugh at my expense.”

Bernice, our prep cook, who followed Amber from the diner, pokes her head around the corner. “Need me to get the first aid kit? Because this looks like it’s going to end in Band-Aids.”

“Just my pride needs medical attention,” Benji calls out.

Amber and I exchange glances. Our grand opening kitchen is being held together by hope, determination, and apparently very aggressive cookware.

“Should we call the fire department?” I ask.

“Only if you want the headline to read ‘Local Restaurant Opens, Line Cook Requires Rescue Operation,’” Benji says. “My dignity’s already dead. Let’s not make it public.”

Tally manages to untangle him without bringing down the entire pot rack, though not without Benji acquiring several new bruises and what appears to be a ladle-shaped dent in his chef’s hat.

“Crisis averted,” Benji announces, straightening his hat with wounded pride. “Nobody saw anything.”

“Half the dining room heard the crash,” Amber points out.

“Details.” Benji waves a hand dismissively. “I’m calling it ‘enthusiasm for culinary excellence.’”

“Just don’t let it happen again,” Tally says, returning to her dessert station. “I’ve got six orders of crème br?lée that need torching, and I can’t have you creating percussion sections while I’m working with fire.”

“Yes, chef,” Benji says with mock seriousness, then grins at Bernice. “See? Told you this place would be more exciting than the diner.”

“Mama! Daddy’s here! Can we go say hi? I want to tell him about the fish and chips!”

Amber’s face goes carefully neutral—the expression every divorced parent perfects when they need to protect their children from adult complications.

“That’s nice, sweetheart,” she says, smoothing Mason’s hair. “But Daddy’s having dinner with his friend right now. We don’t want to interrupt.”

“But it’s our restaurant!” Mason protests. “We should say hi to everyone!”

“Later, okay? Right now, Mom needs to check on the kitchen.”

I can see the internal war she’ s fighting—wanting to shield her kids from whatever Chad has planned while not wanting to dim their excitement about their father’s presence.

“I’ll handle it.” I start toward his table, but Amber catches my arm.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. “That’s what he wants. He wants you to react, to cause a scene.”

“I’m not going to cause a scene. I’m going to handle our customer service issue.”

“Brett—”

But I’m already walking toward table twelve, every eye in the restaurant following me. The conversations have died down to whispers. Everyone’s waiting to see what happens next.

“Good evening,” I say pleasantly when I reach Chad’s table. “I understand there’s an issue with your service?”

Chad leans back in his chair with the satisfied expression of a man who’s gotten exactly what he wanted—attention, drama, and the chance to be the center of the universe for five minutes. “Wondering if this is typical for new restaurants. Long waits, inconsistent service...”

Right. Because Chad’s an expert on restaurant service, having spent most of his marriage asking Amber why dinner wasn’t ready while he sat on the couch watching sports.

“Actually,” his date interrupts with obvious embarrassment, “our food came out fine. Chad, maybe we should?—”

“I’m sure there’s some confusion,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Your server will be right over to check on you.”

“No confusion,” Chad says loudly enough for the neighboring tables to hear. “Concerned about whether this place is really ready for prime time. Seems like maybe you opened too soon.”

And there it is. The public challenge. The attempt to undermine our credibility in front of half the town.

I’m about to respond when Amber appears beside me, her chin up and her eyes blazing.

“Is there a problem with your meal?” she asks Chad with perfect professional courtesy.

“Amber.” Chad’s smile is all teeth, no warmth. “Congratulations on tonight. Though I have to say, I’m surprised you went ahead with the opening. Given our pending business discussion.”

The surrounding tables go quiet. Everyone’s listening now.

“We don’t have any pending business,” Amber says clearly.

“Really? Because my lawyer seems to think we had a settlement offer with a deadline.”

My hands clench into fists. He’s doing this here, now, in front of everyone. Making their private business public, forcing her to defend herself in the middle of our grand opening.

“Your lawyer can contact mine,” I say before Amber can respond. “Davidson, Reeves & Associates. They’re handling all restaurant business matters now.”

Chad’s smile falters slightly. “Is that so?”

“That’s so. Along with the harassment complaint we’re filing with the sheriff’s department.”

The threat hangs in the air between us. Chad’s date shifts uncomfortably in her seat, clearly wanting to disappear. The nearby tables are watching this like a tennis match.

“Harassment?” Chad laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m simply a concerned citizen expressing legitimate business concerns?—”