Page 6 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

FIVE

AMBER

I ’m sitting at my kitchen table, laptop open to another page of job postings that might as well be written in a foreign language.

Experienced line cook needed —check. Flexible schedule required —double check.

Must be willing to work weekends, holidays, and every moment of personal time you once held dear —well, they don’t say that last part, but it’s implied.

The unemployment paperwork creates a paper mountain next to my coffee mug. Mason’s at the counter building what he calls a “sandwich castle”—three slices of bread, peanut butter applied with the precision of an architect, and enough jelly to feed a small village.

“Mama, why do your eyebrows look angry?” Mason asks, not pausing in his construction project.

“My eyebrows aren’t angry, buddy. Just focused. ”

Ellen, here for a playdate, looks up from stringing beads with surgical concentration. “Focused looks like angry.”

Four-year-olds. Brutal honesty wrapped in innocence.

“I’m looking for work, sweethearts.”

“Work is boring,” Mason declares with the authority of someone who’s clearly given this extensive thought. “You should just make your special mac and cheese for people. Then they’d pay you lots of money.”

If only it were that simple. Though Mason’s not wrong about my mac and cheese—I’ve been perfecting Grandma’s recipe for years, adding my own touches. Three different cheeses, a hint of mustard powder, and breadcrumbs that actually have flavor instead of being sad yellow dust.

My phone buzzes.

Michelle: Hey, would you be interested in some part-time shifts? I know you’re looking and could really use the help.

I stare at the message. Part-time coffee shop wages versus mortgage payments and feeding three growing children. It’s like trying to fill a bucket with a thimble. But it’s work. And part-time work beats the nothing I’m currently bringing home.

Me: Definitely interested. When can we talk?

Her response comes immediately: How about tomorrow morning around 9:30? Coffee’s on me .

“Ellen, your mama will be here soon,” I call out, checking the time.

“Can I stay for dinner? Mason said you’re making magic spaghetti.”

I laugh. “Magic spaghetti is just regular spaghetti with a good sauce.”

“But yours tastes different,” Ellen says with the seriousness of a food critic. “Better.”

These kids are going to be the death of me with their sweetness.

When Hazel arrives, she looks like she’s either had the best day or the worst day. With wedding planning, it’s impossible to tell which.

“How’s the bride-to-be surviving?” I ask with a cheerful smile, because someone needs to inject positivity into whatever chaos she’s been dealing with.

“Barely. Did you know there are seventeen different shades of white flowers, and choosing wrong will apparently ruin everything?” She runs her hand through her hair like she’s considering pulling it out by the roots. “Jack keeps suggesting Vegas. An Elvis chapel is starting to sound reasonable.”

“Wedding planning that fun?”

“It’s like organizing a small army, except with more opinions and higher stakes. Plus Ellen keeps asking if she can wear her tutu to the ceremony because ‘fancy dresses need fancy dancing.’ ”

I grin. “That sounds absolutely perfect, actually. Tutus make everything better.”

After Ellen leaves with her latest bead creation and enough excitement to power the house for a week, I spend the evening making my resume sound impressive.

Managed kitchen operations under pressure while maintaining food safety standards sounds much better than kept everyone from food poisoning while the owner cut corners on everything.

T he next morning, I spend too much time picking my outfit. Not because I’m trying to impress anyone specific. Not because a certain construction worker might frequent Michelle’s shop. I’m just being professional about a job interview.

Right. Professional. That’s totally why I’m standing in front of my closet like I’m preparing for a first date instead of a coffee shop interview.

The blue sundress feels right. Put-together but approachable. The kind of outfit that says “responsible employee” without screaming “desperate mom who ate leftover pizza for breakfast.”

Michelle’s behind the counter when I arrive, creating coffee art that probably costs more than my weekly grocery budget .

“Amber!” She waves me over with genuine enthusiasm. “Great timing. Morning rush just ended.”

We settle by the window, and she explains the position.

Part-time shifts, minimum wage plus tips, flexible scheduling, and leftover pastries.

My kids would think Christmas came early with day-old muffins, but the math is sobering.

Even with unemployment benefits, this won’t come close to covering our expenses.

Still, it’s honest work. It would get me out of the house, keep some money coming in while I figure out the next step.

“When would you need me to start?”

“As soon as you’re ready. I’ve been pulling doubles since Jenna moved, and I’m forgetting what sleep feels like.”

We’re discussing training schedules when the door chimes. I glance up automatically and freeze.

Brett Walker stands in the doorway like he just stepped out of a hardware store commercial. Work jeans, gray henley that does things to his shoulders that should be illegal, and those storm-colored eyes that seem to see right through my carefully constructed walls.

Our gazes meet across the coffee shop. My heart does this ridiculous skipping thing that I’m blaming on too much caffeine and not enough breakfast.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just nods once like acknowledging my existence is a chore he’d rather avoid. The man radiates “leave me alone” energy as a superpower.

Which, naturally, makes me want to do the exact opposite.

Michelle notices my sudden silence, turns to see what’s captured my attention, and her eyebrows rise with knowing satisfaction.

“I should get back to work,” she says, standing with a barely contained grin. “Brett! The usual?”

“Actually,” he says, walking toward our table with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to a root canal, “I need to talk to Amber. If that’s all right.”

My stomach flips. This feels intentional. Like he came here specifically to find me, which is either flattering or terrifying. Possibly both.

Michelle practically glows with matchmaking satisfaction. “Of course! Take your time. I’ll just be over there, definitely not listening.”

She disappears with all the subtlety of a marching band, leaving me alone with Brett and the sudden awareness that this conversation might change everything.

“Mind if I sit?” He gestures to Michelle’s abandoned chair like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

I nod because my voice has apparently decided to take an unscheduled vacation.

He settles across from me, and the space between us feels charged with tension I can’t quite identify .

“So,” I manage, because someone needs to start this conversation and he clearly isn’t going to make this easy.

“So,” he echoes, running his hand through his hair in a gesture that suggests this conversation is already not going the way he planned.

“Michelle mentioned you’re working on the old Murphy’s building. That’s so exciting! I’ve been wondering what would happen to that space.”

His expression shifts slightly. Did my enthusiasm catch him off guard? “It’s a project.”

“What kind of project?” I lean forward, genuinely interested despite his obvious reluctance to discuss it.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Maybe he’s debating whether to answer at all. “Restaurant. Maybe.”

Getting information out of this man is like squeezing water from a stone, but I’m nothing if not persistent when something matters. My ex-husband used to say my relentless optimism was exhausting. Brett’s starting to get that same look—like my sunshine is personally offensive to his storm clouds.

Good. Maybe someone needs to ruffle his perfectly organized grumpiness.

“That’s wonderful! This town could really use a good dinner spot. What’s your vision for it?”

Another pause. Another internal debate playing out across his features.

“Look,” he says finally, his voice rough around the edges like he’s forcing out each word, “I need help. Someone who knows restaurants.”

The admission clearly pains him. Brett Walker asking for help is probably rarer than a unicorn sighting in Twin Waves.

I blink at him, processing his blunt delivery. “Oh.”

“I handle renovation, startup costs, permits. You handle...” He gestures vaguely, like the concept of food service—or maybe just talking to people—is beyond his comprehension.

“The kitchen,” I supply helpfully, giving him my brightest smile just to watch him shift uncomfortably.

“Right.”

Well. This is the most awkward business proposition I’ve ever received. If you can even call it a proposition when it’s delivered like he’s reading a grocery list.

We’re like opposite ends of the emotional spectrum—me, who finds silver linings in thunderstorms, and him, who probably finds clouds in sunshine.

“Brett,” I say gently, because clearly someone needs to inject some humanity into this conversation, “are you asking me to be your partner?”

He winces like the word physically pains him. “Business partner. Nothing... complicated.”

The way he says complicated makes it sound like a disease he’s determined not to catch. Meanwhile, I’m the kind of person who thinks complications usually lead to the best stories .

Perfect match, clearly.

I sit back, studying this grumpy, stubborn man who just offered me everything I’ve been dreaming about while acting like it’s some kind of necessary evil.

“What if it doesn’t work?” I ask, because that’s the question that keeps me awake at night.

“Then we figure it out.” His tone suggests he has about as much faith in success as he does in unicorns.

“That’s very... optimistic of you.”