Page 47 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

THIRTY-ONE

AMBER

T he back door opens, and Brett steps inside The Salty Pearl, bringing the sticky summer heat in with him. We’ve developed this routine of early morning prep together, before service chaos begins.

“You beat me here,” he says, pulling off his sunglasses and giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about this,” I say, holding up the official Heart and Heritage nomination letter like evidence in a court case. “A month ago, we were submitting our application wondering if we had any chance at all. Now we’re actually nominated.”

“You’re nominated,” he corrects, moving closer and starting the coffee with the efficiency of someone who’s done this routine a hundred times. “This is about your talent, your vision, your grandmother’s recipes. ”

“Our restaurant,” I correct right back. “Our dream.”

He pauses in his coffee preparation to look at me, and there’s something in those storm-gray eyes making my pulse skip. Something resembling pride mixed with something deeper. Something building over the past few weeks since the nomination call.

“How are you feeling about the whole thing?”

“Terrified. Excited. Like I might throw up and cry simultaneously. Also like I should probably clean something.”

“The ceremony’s not for three months. Plenty of time to stress-clean everything in Twin Waves twice.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” I say, but I’m smiling. Brett knows exactly how to make me laugh even when I’m spiraling into organizational overdrive.

Last year, his practical responses made me want to throw kitchen utensils at his head. Now they somehow anchor me when everything feels overwhelming.

“Besides,” he adds, handing me a steaming mug of coffee that’s perfectly made because he pays attention to details like how much cream I take and whether I’ve eaten breakfast yet, “you’ve got this.

You’ve survived health department sabotage, influencer features, and Mason trying to ‘help’ by reorganizing the walk-in cooler.

A fancy awards ceremony should be manageable. ”

“Don’t jinx it,” I warn, taking a sip of coffee tasting like liquid comfort .

We hear the familiar sound of controlled commotion approaching from the front of the restaurant.

“Amber!” Mom’s voice carries through the dining room. “We brought celebration breakfast!”

“And by ‘we,’ she means she dragged us all here because she’s more excited about your nomination than you are,” comes Tally’s voice, thick with the long-suffering tone of a teenager forced to be social before coffee.

And there they are, appearing in the kitchen doorway like a small parade of Bennett family enthusiasm.

Mom’s carrying a casserole dish smelling divine, Dad’s got what appears to be enough coffee to caffeinate a small army, and the kids are all wearing matching “Salty Pearl Crew” t-shirts someone definitely made without consulting me first.

“Surprise!” Mom announces, setting the casserole on the prep counter with the confidence of someone who’s never met a kitchen she couldn’t commandeer. “I made celebration breakfast casserole with extra cheese because today is a special day, and special days require extra cheese.”

“Mom, it’s 7:20 AM,” I point out. “And we’re not technically open.”

“Excellence doesn’t sleep in,” Dad says, setting up what appears to be a mobile coffee station. “Besides, figured you’d want to celebrate before the lunch rush. ”

“Assuming we have a lunch rush,” I mutter, still not entirely convinced this whole Grant nomination thing isn’t an elaborate prank.

“Oh, you’ll have a rush,” comes a familiar voice from the front door. We all turn to see Hazel letting herself in with the confidence of someone who has emergency key privileges, followed by Jack, Michelle, and what appears to be half our regular customers.

“Hazel,” I say carefully, watching our unofficial Twin Waves breakfast club file in behind her, “what did you do?”

“I may have mentioned the nomination on social media,” she says with a grin suggesting she’s been planning this ambush for days. “And by mentioned, I mean I posted about it approximately seventeen times with enough hashtags to trend in three counties.”

“It’s 7:30 in the morning!” I protest.

“And we brought our own coffee,” Michelle says cheerfully, carrying what appears to be a portable espresso setup. “Plus pastries from three different bakeries because we couldn’t decide which ones you’d like best.”

“Also,” Jack adds, looking slightly overwhelmed by the crowd he’s somehow leading, “the mayor wanted to stop by.”

“Mayor Waters?” Brett’s voice goes dangerously quiet. “As in, Penelope’s husband?”

“The same Mayor Waters,” Hazel confirms, “who apparently had no idea what his wife was up to and is very interested in making amends. Also, he’s bringing a photographer from the town newspaper.”

Blood drains from my face. “A photographer? Looking like this?”

I gesture to my appearance—hair in a messy bun, wearing jeans and an old Salty Pearl t-shirt, probably sporting the kind of dark circles coming from a sleepless night of obsessing over Emmeline Grant nominations.

“You look beautiful,” Brett says quietly, and the sincerity in his voice makes my cheeks heat.

This man. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have noticed if I showed up to work covered in grease and exhaustion. Now he sees me at my most disheveled and calls me beautiful like he means it.

“I look like I’ve been up all night.”

“Which you have,” Tally points out helpfully. “I heard you pacing the hallway at 2 AM.”

There’s another commotion from the front as Michelle accidentally knocks over her bag of coffee beans while setting up her espresso station.

“Oh no,” she says, watching dark roasted beans scatter across the kitchen floor like caffeinated confetti. “I’m so sorry. They’re everywhere.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, trying not to laugh at the sight of my father carefully picking coffee beans out of his shirt pocket. “We’ll?—”

Mayor Waters chooses this moment to make his entrance, followed by a photographer who immediately starts snapping pictures of our coffee bean disaster.

“Ms. Bennett!” Mayor Waters booms, apparently oblivious to the commotion around him. “Congratulations on your Emmeline Grant nomination! This is exactly the kind of positive attention Twin Waves needs!”

The photographer’s camera flashes as he captures what I’m sure will be a lovely shot of me standing in a kitchen covered in coffee beans, wearing yesterday’s t-shirt, and looking like I haven’t slept in a week.

“Thank you,” I manage, trying to kick coffee beans under the prep counter while maintaining some semblance of dignity.

“We’d love to get some shots of you in action,” the photographer says enthusiastically. “Maybe preparing one of your signature dishes?”

“Right now?” I squeak.

“The early morning light is perfect,” he insists. “Very authentic. Natural.”

“Authentic,” I repeat weakly, looking around at my family and friends who are all trying to help clean up coffee beans while pretending this is a perfectly normal way to celebrate an award nomination.

“I could make biscuits,” I offer. “Grandma Pearl’s recipe?”

“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims, already adjusting his camera settings .

Brett steps closer, his presence immediately calming my rising panic. “I’ll handle the cleanup crew,” he says quietly. “You focus on the biscuits.”

This is Brett in protector mode. Taking charge, solving problems, making sure I can handle what I need to handle without worrying about everything else. Six months ago, I would have bristled at anyone trying to manage my kitchen crisis. Now I’m grateful for his steady competence.

Twenty minutes later, I’m somehow managing to make biscuits while being photographed, interviewed by Mayor Waters, and surrounded by the most chaotically supportive crowd I’ve ever seen.

Jessica’s appointed herself as my sous chef, Michelle’s handling coffee duties for everyone, and the kids have somehow turned coffee bean cleanup into a competitive sport.

“So tell me,” Mayor Waters says as the photographer captures me rolling out dough, “what does this nomination mean to you?”

I pause, my hands stilling on the rolling pin, and look around at this beautiful commotion.

Brett’s helping Crew measure coffee beans “for scientific accuracy.” Michelle’s explaining proper coffee storage to Tally while somehow managing to sweep simultaneously.

Hazel’s arranging the flowers she brought into a photogenic display while Mom quietly picks up the last of the scattered beans.

“It means,” I say slowly, “dreams actually do come true. Even when they come covered in coffee beans and surrounded by people who love you enough to show up at 7:30 AM to celebrate.”

“Beautiful,” the photographer says, snapping away. “Very heartfelt.”

“It’s true,” I add, catching Brett’s eye across the kitchen.

He’s watching me with the kind of warmth making my chest tight with happiness, and there’s something else in his expression.

Something building these past few weeks, something making my pulse flutter whenever I catch him looking at me like this.

By the time the mayor and photographer leave, we’ve somehow managed to produce a full breakfast spread and enough coffee to fuel a small village. The dining room is full of people who shouldn’t technically be here but somehow make the space feel more like home than it ever has.

“You know,” I say to Brett as we watch my dad explain proper fishing techniques to Jack while Mason demonstrates the aerodynamics of coffee beans, “this is not how I imagined celebrating my first award nomination.”

“Better or worse than you imagined?”

I consider this, looking around at the controlled commotion that is my life.

Coffee beans are still occasionally crunching under people’s feet.

Michelle and Jack are now engaged in what appears to be a friendly debate about different brewing methods.

My mother is serving breakfast casserole to anyone within reach.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Tally is taking photos because “this is definitely going on social media.”

“Better,” I say without hesitation. “Definitely better.”

“Good,” Brett says, moving closer. “Because I have a feeling this is the beginning.”

“Of what?”

“Of everything.” He’s looking at me with an intensity making my pulse flutter, and I’m suddenly very aware we’re standing in our restaurant, surrounded by our friends and family, celebrating something that felt impossible months ago.

“Brett,” I say softly, “are you about to say something romantic? Because if you are, you should know Tally’s probably documenting this.”

“Let her,” he says, and I watch in shock as he reaches into his jacket pocket. “Some moments are worth documenting.”

My heart stops when I see what he’s pulling out. A small black box.

“Brett,” I whisper, suddenly unable to breathe.

“I know this isn’t the most conventional place or time,” he says, his voice carrying enough to make conversations around us slowly fade. “But nothing about us has been conventional.”

“Oh my gosh,” Hazel breathes from somewhere behind me. “Is this happening right now? ”

“It’s happening,” Tally confirms, and the grin in her voice is audible. “Mom, don’t you dare say no. We all like him way too much.”

Brett drops to one knee right there in our kitchen, surrounded by coffee beans and breakfast casserole and the people who’ve become our family.

“Amber Bennett,” he says, opening the box to reveal the most perfect ring I’ve ever seen, “you’ve turned my whole world upside down in the best possible way. You’ve shown me what it means to build something real, something lasting, something worth fighting for.”

Tears stream down my face, and I don’t even care there’s probably a coffee bean stuck in my hair.

“A year ago, I thought you were the most stubborn, impossible woman I’d ever met,” he continues, and I laugh through my tears. “Turns out I was right. You are stubborn and impossible, and you’ve made me want things I never thought I deserved.”

“Brett,” I whisper.

“Will you marry me?” he asks. “Will you let me be your partner in all of this—the restaurant, the beautiful mess that is our life? Will you let me love you and your kids for the rest of our lives?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice cracking with emotion. “Yes to all of it.”

The kitchen erupts in cheers as he slides the ring onto my finger, and it fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be there.

Then he stands up and kisses me, deep and full of promises about the future we’re going to build together, while our friends and family cheer and Tally takes what she’ll probably call “the best engagement photos ever.”

When we finally break apart, we’re both grinning.

It’s messy and loud and absolutely perfect. Like us.

I look at this man who proposed to me in a kitchen covered in coffee beans, surrounded by our friends and family and the restaurant we built from dreams and stubbornness.

“Are you ready for this?” Brett asks after kissing me soundly.

A year ago, I thought Brett Walker was my biggest obstacle. Now he’s my greatest adventure.

“Bring it on,” I say.

And I mean every word.