Page 48 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

THIRTY-TWO

brETT

M id-September, I’m standing in the bathroom of the Emmeline Grant Culinary Foundation awards venue in Chicago, staring at myself in the mirror and trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The black suit fits perfectly. Amber insisted we both get something new for tonight, but I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

Six hours ago, we were in our kitchen in Twin Waves, going over prep lists and arguing about whether our newest server could handle the weekend rush without dropping something.

Now we’re at one of the most prestigious culinary events in the country, and my fiancée is nominated for an award that could change our entire world.

Well, our entire world except what actually matters .

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” comes a familiar voice from behind me.

I turn to see Jack adjusting his own tie in the mirror, looking annoyingly calm for someone who’s never been to anything fancier than a wedding reception.

“I might,” I admit. “This is slightly outside my comfort zone.”

“Really? Because you seem like the kind of guy who’s comfortable anywhere.”

“I’m comfortable with construction sites and permit offices and restaurants full of regular people eating good food.

This?” I gesture toward the door, beyond which lies a ballroom full of celebrity chefs and food critics and people who probably use words like ‘molecular gastronomy’ in casual conversation.

“This is Amber’s world. I’m the guy who makes sure the walk-in cooler doesn’t break down. ”

“Nonsense,” Jack says bluntly, turning to face me. “You built that restaurant with her. Every piece of equipment, every design choice, every detail that makes it special—that’s your work too.”

“She’s the chef. She’s the talent.”

“And you’re the partner who made it possible for her talent to shine.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Stop selling yourself short. You belong here as much as she does.”

Before I can argue with him, the bathroom door opens and Hazel peeks in, looking like she was born to coordinate fancy events.

“There you are,” she says. “Amber’s looking for you. Something about needing moral support and also someone to hold her purse because apparently evening gowns don’t come with practical pockets.”

“How’s she doing?” I ask, following them out into the hallway.

“Better than you, apparently,” Jack observes. “She’s in full chef mode: focused, determined, ready to take on the world. You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

We make our way back to the cocktail reception, and I spot Amber immediately.

She’s wearing a deep emerald dress that makes her eyes look like sea glass, her hair swept up in an elegant style that showcases the graceful line of her neck.

She’s talking to a group of food writers, gesturing animatedly with a champagne flute in one hand, and she looks absolutely radiant.

She also looks like she belongs here, which shouldn’t surprise me but somehow does.

Less than two years ago, she was hiding in walk-in coolers having panic attacks about health inspectors.

Tonight, she’s holding court with some of the most influential people in the food industry like she’s been doing it her whole life .

Because she has been, but she just didn’t realize it yet.

A year ago, I thought Amber Bennett was the most infuriatingly optimistic person I’d ever met. Tonight, watching her light up every conversation she enters, I realize her sunshine doesn’t just brighten rooms—it transforms them.

“She’s incredible,” I murmur, not really meaning to say it out loud.

“Yeah, she is,” Jack agrees. “And she chose you.”

“I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

“That too.”

I make my way over to her, weaving through conversations about farm-to-table philosophies and the future of Southern cuisine. When she sees me approaching, her whole face lights up with the kind of smile that makes my chest tight with love and pride.

“There you are,” she says, reaching for my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was telling Milli about our coffee bean incident at our nomination party.”

Milli stands out even in this crowd—magenta dress, sky-high heels, and earrings shaped like tiny forks. Her hair’s twisted up in some kind of shiny, rose-gold situation.

Milli lets out a quick, musical laugh. “Sounds like your restaurant’s got more personality than most people I date. ”

She winks over the rim of her espresso cup, and I suddenly understand how this woman built a media empire with just a phone and a bite of food.

“It has personality,” I agree. “Mostly because it’s full of Amber’s family, and they’re all slightly insane in the best possible way.”

“Speaking of family,” Amber says, “where are the kids? They should be here by now.”

“Hazel texted twenty minutes ago. They’re in the lobby having what she diplomatically called ‘a spirited discussion’ with hotel security about whether Mason’s toy dinosaur counts as a ‘disruptive prop.’”

“Oh no.” Amber groans. “I should go?—”

“Relax,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Your mom’s with them too. Between her and Hazel, they could negotiate peace treaties and reorganize the United Nations by dinnertime.”

This is what I do now. Anticipate problems, solve them before they become crises, and make sure Amber can focus on what she does best. A year ago, I would have told her to handle her own family emergency. Now I make sure she doesn’t have to.

Growth looks good on me.

Before Amber can worry further, there’s a commotion near the entrance that can only mean one thing: my future in-laws have arrived.

Sure enough, Amber’s parents sweep into the reception with the confidence of people who’ve raised three successful children and survived it to tell the tale, followed by my mother who flew in this morning and immediately started critiquing our hotel room’s organizational system, and three kids who are clearly trying to be on their best behavior but failing spectacularly.

Mason is indeed carrying a small dinosaur, which he’s apparently named after the hotel. “This is Fairmont,” he announces to anyone within earshot. “He’s a vegetarian, and he likes fancy cheese.”

Crew has somehow acquired a notebook and is taking detailed observations about the catering setup.

And Tally is dressed like a young professional but moving through the crowd with the focused intensity of someone documenting everything for posterity.

“Mom!” Mason calls out when he spots us, waving his dinosaur in the air. “Fairmont wants to know if there’s going to be cake at this party!”

“There might be dessert,” Amber says diplomatically.

“What kind of dessert?”

“The fancy kind,” Crew answers before Amber can respond. “I researched the menu. They’re serving something called ‘deconstructed lemon tart with micro herbs.’”

“What does deconstructed mean?” Mason asks.

“It means they took apart a normal dessert and made it fancy by putting it back together weird,” Tally explains with the authority of someone who’s clearly given this some thought.

“That sounds dumb,” Mason declares.

“Mason,” Amber starts, but Milli is already laughing.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” she says. “I’ve had some deconstructed desserts that definitely qualified as putting things back together weird.”

The reception continues for another hour, a blur of conversations about food trends and restaurant economics and the future of coastal cuisine.

Amber navigates it all with growing confidence, talking about her grandmother’s recipes and the importance of supporting local suppliers and her vision for The Salty Pearl’s future.

She’s in her element, and it’s incredible to witness.

When they finally call us in for dinner, we’re seated at a table near the front with other nominees in Amber’s category.

The other chefs are impressive. A young woman from Portland who’s revolutionizing plant-based cuisine, a couple from New Orleans who’re bringing Creole traditions to modern dining, a team from San Francisco who’ve made sustainable seafood their mission.

They’re all talented, all deserving, all probably more experienced and better connected than we are .

But none of them have Amber’s story. None of them have her heart.

“You okay?” Amber asks quietly as the salad course arrives.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“About how proud I am of you. How far we’ve come. How grateful I am to be here with you.”

She reaches under the table and squeezes my hand. “We’re here together. That’s what matters.”

The dinner passes in a carefully orchestrated dance of courses I’m too nervous to fully appreciate and speeches from culinary legends I’ve only read about in magazines.

Amber seems calmer than I feel, chatting with the other nominees and asking thoughtful questions about their restaurants and cooking philosophies.

Finally, impossibly, they reach our category.

“The Emmaline Grant Culinary Foundation Heart and Heritage Award goes to,” the presenter announces, and my heart starts hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

They read through the nominees, and when they say “The Salty Pearl,” Amber’s hand trembles slightly on her water glass.

“And the winner is…”

The pause feels like it lasts for several geological eras.

“The Salty Pearl, Twin Waves, North Carolina! ”

The ballroom erupts in applause, but rushing fills my ears alongside Amber’s sharp intake of breath beside me.

“We won,” she whispers, like she can’t quite believe it.

“You won,” I correct, standing with her as she rises on unsteady legs.

“We won,” she says more firmly, and the look she gives me is so full of love and gratitude and shared joy that I almost forget we’re in a room full of people.

I kiss her quickly, right there at our table, and she tastes like champagne and victory and everything I never knew I wanted.

“Go,” I say against her lips. “Go get our award.”

She makes her way to the stage on legs steadier than they have any right to be, and when she reaches the podium, she’s transformed again.

Not the nervous chef from our kitchen or the overwhelmed small business owner from permit hearings, but a woman who belongs on this stage, accepting this recognition, representing everything good about American cuisine.

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, her voice carrying clearly through the ballroom, “my grandmother taught me that food isn’t just nourishment. It’s love made edible. It’s family gathered around a table. It’s the way we take care of each other.”

She pauses, looking directly at our table, and tears shine in her eyes .

“The Salty Pearl exists because of her recipes and her wisdom, but it thrives because of community. Because of the local fishermen who bring us their catch, the farmers who grow our vegetables, and the staff who treat every customer like family.”

Her gaze finds mine across the room.

“And because of the man who believed in this dream even when I was too scared to believe in it myself. Brett Walker, my business partner, my fiancé, my best friend—this award belongs to you too.”

The applause is thunderous, but the woman on that stage holds all my attention—holding a Emmeline Grant Award and crediting me with helping her achieve this moment.

Two years ago, I thought Amber Bennett was going to be the death of my carefully ordered life. Turns out she was going to be the making of it instead.

When she finally makes it back to our table, award in hand and glowing with happiness, I pull her into my arms and spin her around right there in the middle of the ballroom.

“We did it,” I whisper in her ear.

“We did it,” she agrees, laughing and crying simultaneously.

“So what now?” I ask when I finally set her down.

“Now we go home,” she says, looking at the award in her hands like she still can’t quite believe it’s real. “ We go back to our restaurant, our family, our life. And we keep doing what we love.”

“Together?”

“Always together.”

L ater, much later, after the after-parties and the interviews and the endless photos, I walk Amber back to her hotel room. She sets the Emmeline Grant Award on the dresser and stares at it like it might disappear if she looks away.

“Any regrets?” I ask, loosening my tie while she studies her reflection in the mirror.

“About what?”

“About choosing the quiet life. The small town. The local restaurant instead of the celebrity chef track.”

She turns to look at me, still radiant even with her makeup slightly smudged and her hair escaping from its elegant style.

“Are you kidding?” she says. “Brett, a year ago, I was unemployed and hiding from my ex-husband’s lawyers. Tonight I won an Emmeline Grant Award, and I’m engaged to the man of my dreams. In what universe is this not everything I could possibly want?”

“The universe where you could have your own TV show and cookbook deals and restaurants in major cities. ”

“I don’t want restaurants in major cities. I want our restaurant, in our town, serving our people.” She moves closer, reaching up to finish loosening my tie. “I want Sunday dinners with my kids and morning coffee with you and customers who know our names. I want the life we’re building together.”

“Even if it means staying small?”

“Especially if it means staying us.” She kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of promises about the future we’re choosing together.

When we break apart, she’s wearing that secret smile that makes my heart forget how to beat properly.

“Besides,” she adds with a grin, “who says we have to stay small forever? Maybe next year we’ll open a second location. Maybe we’ll write that cookbook. Maybe we’ll take over the entire East Coast with Grandma Pearl’s recipes and your organizational systems.”

“Now that,” I say, pulling her closer, “sounds like a plan.”

“A good plan?”

“The best plan.”

Outside our window, Chicago glitters in the distance, full of possibilities and dreams and other people’s ambitions. But inside this room, holding the woman I love and celebrating everything we’ve worked for, we’ve already won what matters most.

Tomorrow we’ll go home to Twin Waves, to The Salty Pearl and the life we’ve built with love, stubbornness, and Grandma Pearl’s recipes.

Last summer, I thought happiness was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Turns out it was an investment I couldn’t afford not to make.

And it’s going to be perfect. Not because it’s easy or simple or guaranteed, but because it’s ours.

All of it. Forever.