Page 5 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

FOUR

brETT

That photograph messes with my head every time I look at it. All those people sharing fish dinners, laughing over platters of what was probably the catch of the day, creating the kind of memories that stick around. It’s what this place used to be. What it could be again.

Maybe.

If I knew what I was doing.

I’ve flipped dozens of properties over the years— houses, small commercial buildings, even a defunct gas station that I turned into a coffee shop before selling it.

But restaurants? That’s uncharted territory, which probably explains why I’ve been staring at Murphy’s menu for the better part of an hour like it holds the secrets to the universe.

Jack’s testing the stability of what’s left of the bar while Hazel examines the ocean-facing windows with the intensity of someone planning either a military operation or an elaborate dinner party.

We’re kid-free for once, which feels both peaceful and vaguely suspicious.

Ellen’s being watched by Amber for a couple hours since Lila and Kira both had sports tonight and Mads is working at the boutique—something about me needing Jack to walk through the electrical situation before I electrocute myself more than the usual amount.

The afternoon light streaming through those salt-stained windows turns everything golden, and I can almost see what this place could become. Almost. If I squint and ignore the part where I have no clue what comes next.

“So,” Hazel says, turning away from the windows with that look that means she’s about to reorganize my entire existence whether I want it or not, “what’s the plan here, Brett?”

I hold up the vintage menu like it’s evidence in a court case. “Step one is figuring out what happened to Murphy’s secret clam chowder recipe. Step two is probably involving a treasure map.”

“I’m serious,” she says, though she’s trying not to smile at my deflection. “You’ve been working on this place for months. What happens when you’re done?”

Jack looks up from the bar, which chooses that exact moment to shift under his weight with a groan that sounds like it’s contemplating early retirement. He grabs the edge to steady himself, and a cascade of dust rains down from the ceiling, coating his hair in what looks like powdered sugar.

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Jack mutters, creating small dust clouds every time he moves his head.

“The structural integrity is better than it looks,” I say.

“That’s what they said about the Titanic,” he points out, still patting dust out of his hair.

“The Titanic wasn’t brought down by questionable carpentry.”

“No, just questionable confidence in unsinkable things.”

Fair point.

The thing is, Hazel’s question hits closer to home than I want to admit.

I’ve been in Twin Waves for eighteen months now, which is approximately seventeen months longer than I usually stay anywhere.

My truck’s been getting restless in the driveway, and I’ve caught myself looking at road maps when I should be reviewing electrical schematics.

But every time I’d seriously considered moving on, I’d think about Mrs. Samuel and her morning window routine, or Bernice needing steady work, or the way Amber handled that health inspection last week like she was defusing a bomb instead of losing her job.

“I figured I’d sell it when it’s finished,” I say, which is what I always tell myself. Even if the words taste wrong lately.

“To who?” Hazel asks like she’s already spotted the flaw in my plan. “Someone who’ll turn it into another tourist trap with a menu full of frozen fish sticks and plastic atmosphere?”

I wince. She’s not wrong. This town has lost most of its local restaurants over the years. The places that served food made by people who actually lived here, who knew their customers’ names and how they liked their coffee.

“You know what this place really needs?” I say, looking around the space that’s equal parts potential and disaster.

“Someone who understands food service operations. All my experience is residential and retail—I know how to wire a kitchen, but I have no clue how to design workflow for the dinner rush.”

“Right,” Hazel says, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. “Someone who knows the business side. ”

And there it is. The direction this conversation is heading like a storm front moving in.

“Don’t,” I warn, recognizing the look that’s passed between them. It’s the same look they get when they’re plotting to improve my life whether I want it improved or not.

“Don’t what?” Hazel asks with the innocent expression of someone who’s definitely not innocent.

“Whatever you’re thinking. I can see you thinking it.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, “you might want to talk to someone who actually knows the restaurant business. Someone local.”

My chest does this annoying thing whenever anyone mentions local restaurant expertise, because there’s really only one person in Twin Waves who fits that description.

“You mean Amber,” I say, because pretending I don’t know what she’s getting at isn’t fooling anyone.

“I mean someone with experience,” Hazel says diplomatically. “Someone who knows the local suppliers, the seasonal patterns, what works in this market.”

Jack snorts from his position at the increasingly unstable bar. “Just say what you mean, Hazel. Brett should talk to Amber because she’s talented and he’s been making moon eyes at her for months.”

“I don’t make moon eyes,” I protest.

“You make something,” Jack says. “Whatever you call that face you get when someone mentions her name.”

The truth is, I have been thinking about Amber more than is smart for a guy who’s spent the last few years keeping things simple. There’s something about the way she moves through a kitchen, the way she makes people feel welcome, the way she turns feeding people into something that matters.

She’s rooted here. Connected to this place and these people in ways I’ve never let myself be connected anywhere. Which should make her exactly the wrong person for someone like me to be thinking about.

Instead, she feels like... trouble. The kind that makes you forget why you usually keep moving.

Which is a thought I’m definitely not ready to examine.

“If I’m serious about this restaurant concept,” I say carefully, “I should probably talk to someone who knows the business side. Equipment requirements, health department regulations, staffing needs.”

“So talk to her,” Hazel says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I can’t just?—”

“Why not?” Jack interrupts, still dusting himself off as though he’s been caught in a flour explosion. “She needs work. You need expertise. Seems straightforward.”

If only it were that simple. If only I could ignore the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like panic, reminding me that caring about places and people is how you end up with more to lose than you can afford.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“How?” Hazel asks with the persistence of someone who’s made a career out of managing complicated people.

I could explain about the careful distance I’ve maintained for years. About how I’ve gotten good at fixing things and moving on before anyone gets too attached. About how partnership sounds dangerously close to permanence, and permanence has never been my strong suit.

Instead, I pick up a loose piece of trim from the floor and turn it over in my hands. The wood is old, probably original to the building, worn smooth by decades of salt air. It could be restored with enough time and patience.

Some things can be fixed. Some things are worth saving.

I’m just not sure I’m one of them.

“I don’t stay places,” I say finally. “That’s not really my thing. Learned the hard way that permanent plans have a way of falling apart when you least expect it.”

“Says who?” Jack asks.

“Says my entire track record. Five years as a Marine officer, then sixteen years of civilian contracting jobs. I fix things and move on. It’s what I know.”

“People change,” Hazel says softly. “Sometimes they just need a reason to.”

I’m about to explain that some people are built for staying and some people are built for leaving, and I’ve always been firmly in the second category, when my foot catches on a loose floorboard.

I stumble forward, arms windmilling like I’m trying to flag down aircraft, and somehow manage to knock over the paint can I’d left balanced on the windowsill.

White primer explodes across the floor in a chalky tidal wave, splattering my boots and creating abstract art I definitely didn’t plan. The can bounces once, twice, then settles into its own puddle with what I swear sounds like satisfaction.

“Graceful,” Jack observes.

“I meant to do that,” I say, staring at the mess that’s somehow managed to coat everything within a six-foot radius. “It’s called... distressed flooring. Very rustic.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Hazel asks, not even trying to hide her laughter.

I grab some rags from my toolbox and start cleaning up the paint, which has apparently decided my jeans and work boots needed a makeover. The primer is the industrial-strength kind that sticks to everything, including dignity.

“You know,” Hazel says, watching me crawl around with paint-soaked rags, “you could always ask for advice. Professional consultation. Nothing complicated.”

My hands are still on the rag. “Professional consultation.”

“Mmm-hmm. About restaurant operations. Kitchen design. What the community actually wants instead of what developers think tourists want.”

I sit back on my heels, looking around the space. The paint mess actually improves the overall aesthetic, which tells you something about the current state of things. But underneath all the decay and questionable life choices, the bones are solid. The view is spectacular. The location is perfect.

It could be something special. With the right person’s input, it could be exactly what this town needs.

“That’s... not a terrible idea,” I admit grudgingly.

“I have my moments,” Hazel says with a grin that suggests she knows exactly how this conversation is going to end.

The thing is, they’re not wrong. I do need someone who understands the business side. Someone who knows this community and what it’s missing. Someone who could help me figure out if this crazy project has any chance of becoming something worthwhile.

And if that someone happens to be Amber Bennett... well, that’s just practical planning. Professional consultation. Nothing more complicated than getting expert advice .

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

“I could ask,” I say slowly, testing the words like I’m checking the stability of a questionable beam. “About the business side. Restaurant operations.”

“You could,” Hazel agrees, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Purely professional,” I add, mostly for my own benefit.

“Absolutely,” Jack says with a straight face that doesn’t fool anyone.

The problem is, even thinking about asking Amber for help makes my chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to hope.

And hope has always been my weakness. Hope is what makes you stay when you should go.

Hope is what makes you care when caring is the fastest way to lose everything that matters.

But maybe—just maybe—hope is also what makes you brave enough to try something that could actually work.

A fter Jack and Hazel leave—Jack still shaking dust out of his hair and Hazel wearing that satisfied expression of someone who’s successfully planted seeds in someone else’s garden—I’m alone with the building and the growing certainty that I’m about to do something either very smart or very stupid.

Probably both.

I spend another hour cleaning up the paint mess and staring at that photograph from 1978. All those people looking like they belong exactly where they are. Like they’ve found their place in the world and decided to stay.

I’ve never been good at staying. But maybe I’ve never had the right reason to try.

The question is whether I’m ready to find out what that reason might look like.

And whether Amber Bennett might be interested in helping me figure it out.