Page 46 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)
THIRTY
brETT
T hree weeks after the wedding, Jack and Hazel are back from their honeymoon in Hawaii, and I’m standing in The Salty Pearl during the afternoon lull, watching Amber review reservations for tonight with the satisfaction of someone whose gamble paid off spectacularly.
We’re booked solid. Again.
MilliEats visited our restaurant last night and posted this morning, and our phone hasn’t stopped ringing since.
Turns out people really do want “authentic coastal cuisine with a real family behind it,” exactly like Milli predicted.
Who knew honesty was such a revolutionary marketing strategy in the restaurant business?
“Table fourteen wants to accommodate a party of eight,” Amber says, not looking up from her reservation book. “And the James family specifically requested our corner table for their anniversary dinner.”
“The Jameses are becoming regulars.”
“Third time this month. Mrs. James told me our seafood pasta reminds her of her honeymoon in Italy.”
I love how this still surprises her. Two months of sold-out nights, glowing reviews, and families becoming genuine regulars, and she still can’t quite believe people actually want what we’re offering.
Like she’s waiting for someone to pull back the curtain and reveal this has all been an elaborate prank.
“Brett,” she says, setting down her pen and fixing me with those gray-green eyes still making my pulse forget its rhythm, “what if this is as good as it gets?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if we’ve peaked? What if Milli’s attention was our fifteen minutes of fame and now we coast?”
There it is. The fear happiness is temporary. That success gets yanked away right when you start believing you deserve it. I understand completely. I spent years thinking the same thing before I met her.
“You want to know what I think?”
“Not really, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re scared because you’ve never had something this good before. Because for the first time in years, you’re not surviving—you’re absolutely thriving. ”
“Very therapeutic, thanks.”
“I also think,” I continue, ignoring her sarcasm because I know it’s her defense mechanism, “we’ve built something sustainable here.
Something real. This isn’t luck or a fluke or fifteen minutes of fame.
This is the result of incredible food, genuine hospitality, and the fact people can feel the love in everything we do. ”
She smiles at that. A real smile, not the polite one she uses with customers who ask if our fish is “fresh” when we’re literally on the coast.
“Together,” I say.
The word has become our anthem. Our promise. Our shorthand for whatever comes next, we’ll face it side by side.
“Remember when you thought the family night idea might be too ambitious?” Amber asks.
“I remember suggesting it might be either brilliant or a complete disaster.”
“And?”
“Turns out it was brilliant. Families love having a place where kids can actually be kids.”
Tally appears from the dining room, balancing a tray of empty plates with the efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for months instead of weeks.
“Table seven wants to know if we’re still doing the family night special on Wednesdays,” she says, setting the tray on the counter. “And table three asked if I’m related to the ‘marine biology kid’ because apparently we have the same sarcastic delivery style.”
“You’ve been working here four months and already have a reputation,” I observe.
“I prefer to think of it as establishing my brand. Professional but not overly enthusiastic about tourists who ask if our fish is ‘fresh’ when we’re literally on the coast.”
This is Tally in her element. She took to restaurant work with surprising enthusiasm, probably because it lets her practice her future career in diplomacy while earning money for college. Plus, she gets to perfect her eye-rolling technique on demanding customers.
“Speaking of which,” she continues, “Grandma Hensley from table nine wants to personally thank whoever taught me to ‘gracefully handle difficult customers.’ Should I tell her it was years of dealing with Mason’s public meltdowns?”
“Let’s keep that between us,” Amber says, but she’s grinning.
Mason appears at the front door, pressing his face against the glass with the dedication of someone conducting very important surveillance work.
“Is that my favorite four-year-old visitor?” I ask, going to unlock the door.
“I’m not visiting,” Mason announces, marching in with the dignity of someone wearing his best shirt. “I’m checking on you and Mama. ”
“Checking on us?”
He studies us with serious eyes. “Tally said you guys work too much and might forget to eat lunch.”
He’s not wrong—we’ve been so busy with dinner prep we completely skipped lunch. Again. This is becoming a terrible habit.
“Your sister is very wise,” Amber says, crouching down to Mason’s level. “What do you think we should do about it?”
“Sandwiches,” he declares with absolute certainty. “And maybe some of those cookies from yesterday.”
“Excellent suggestion.”
Crew arrives from school, carrying what appears to be his tackle box and looking pleased about something.
“Grandpa took me fishing this morning,” Crew says, setting his tackle box down carefully. “We caught three redfish.”
“Before school?” I ask. “Impressive.”
“Yeah, we got up really early.” He grins. “Grandpa says I’m getting better at not scaring the fish away.”
“That’s great, buddy,” Amber says, ruffling his hair. “Maybe you can tell us about it later. Right now we need to figure out lunch.”
“Sandwiches,” Mason declares from his perch on a chair. “I already decided.”
As the kids settle in—Crew putting away his fishing gear, Mason offering helpful sandwich suggestions, Tally checking her phone—I watch this family somehow becoming mine.
This chaotic, beautiful, perfect mess of people who’ve made me understand what home really means.
And that’s when it hits me like a rogue wave.
I don’t want to help Amber build this dream. I don’t want to be her business partner or her boyfriend or even her live-in whatever-we-are.
I want to be her partner in everything. The person who stands beside her through restaurant openings and magazine features and whatever challenges come next.
I want to argue with Crew about homework and teach Mason to throw a baseball and somehow survive Tally’s remaining teenage years.
I want all of it. The chaos, the laughter, the 5 AM fishing trips, the family dinners where everyone talks at once.
I want forever.
“Brett?” Amber’s voice pulls me back to earth. “You look like you’re having some kind of revelation.”
“Maybe I am.”
That’s when Amber’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and frowns.
“Unknown number,” she says, but answers anyway. “Amber Bennett.”
I watch her face transform from cautious to confused to absolutely stunned .
“I... what?” she says, sinking into the nearest chair. “Could you repeat that?”
Mason stops his sandwich planning. Crew looks up from his tackle box. Even Tally pauses her texting. Something about Amber’s tone has captured everyone’s attention.
“The James Beard Foundation,” she says slowly into the phone. “Yes, I understand. Next month. Yes, we’d be honored.”
My heart stops. The James Beard Foundation doesn’t call people with bad news.
“Thank you,” Amber continues. “Thank you so much. Yes, I’ll send everything by email.”
After she hangs up, she stares at her phone like it might explain what happened.
“Good news or bad news?” I ask, though her expression already tells me the answer.
“I... I don’t know. Maybe both?” She looks up at me with wide eyes.
“Can you believe it? The Emmeline Grant Foundation wants to nominate us for the Heart & Heritage Award . It’s for restaurants that blend tradition and innovation—and actually make a difference in their towns. ” Silence. Complete, total silence.
Then Tally shrieks. Actually shrieks with pure joy.
“MOM! Do you know what this means? The Emmeline Grant Culinary Foundation? They’re like the Oscars of food! ”
“But we’ve only been open four months,” Amber says, still processing.
“They said they saw the MilliEats post,” she continues, her voice getting stronger. “They said our story—family recipes, sustainable practices, community involvement—is exactly what they’re looking for. They want us to submit an application.”
“Holy cow, Amber,” Jack’s voice comes from the doorway. He must have arrived during the phone call. “Did I hear You’re nominated for the Grants?”
“They want to nominate us for an award.”
“Before you’ve even been open six months,” I say, grinning. “Do you know what this means?”
“That I’m definitely going to anxiety-clean everything in my house tonight?”
“It means,” Jack says, “you’re not opening a restaurant. You’re creating something extraordinary.”
I pull Amber up from her chair and spin her around, right there in the middle of our dining room, while the kids cheer and Tally takes pictures.
When I set her down, she’s dizzy and laughing and more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.
“We don’t even know if we’ll win anything,” she says.
“Doesn’t matter. They know who you are. They’re paying attention. Recognition means something.”
“What if we’re not ready for this level of attention? ”
“What if we are?” I counter. “What if this is exactly what’s supposed to happen?”
Amber looks around the restaurant, at her kids celebrating like we’ve already won, at the space we’ve built together from nothing but dreams and stubbornness.
“I need to call Michelle,” she says suddenly. “And my parents. And probably organize seventeen different contingency plans.”
“There’s my girl,” I say, and she beams.
When I get back to the restaurant, Amber’s in the kitchen prepping for tonight’s service, talking rapidly into her phone while simultaneously stirring sauce.
“Yes, Mom, the Emmeline Grant Culinary Foundation. No, I’m not making it up. Yes, it’s a big deal.”
She’s got sauce on her cheek and flour in her hair, and she’s never looked more beautiful.
This woman. This incredible, stubborn, brilliant woman who turned my life upside down in the best possible way.
“How’s it going?” I ask when she hangs up.
“Good. I think. Maybe. Ask me again after we actually survive another dinner rush and I figure out how to fill out a an Emmaline Grant application.”
“You know what I think?”
“I’m overthinking everything?”
“I think your grandmother would be proud.”
She stops stirring and looks at me with eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears .
“You think so?”
“I know so. You’ve taken her recipes and created something honoring her memory while being completely your own. Not easy.”
“I want to do right by her. By all of it.”
“You are. Every single day, you’re choosing to build something beautiful instead of letting Chad’s bitterness win. Real courage.”
She steps into my arms, and I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with vanilla and the tiniest hint of ocean air always seeming to cling to her.
“I love you,” she says against my chest.
“I love you too.”
And suddenly, watching her celebrate this incredible milestone while covered in flour and completely in her element, I know exactly when I want to ask her to marry me.
Not in some planned, perfect moment. But in one of these real, beautiful, chaotic moments that make up our actual life together.
Soon. Very soon.