Page 8 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

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brETT

T he boutique’s air conditioning hits me like salvation. It’s Labor Day weekend, and the sun blazes overhead with determined vengeance. I’m soaked in sweat from trying to fix a warped cabinet drawer that clearly doesn’t want to be saved.

I came to Hazel’s for a boogie board. At least, that’s what I told myself.

I’d planned to take the afternoon off and hit the beach before the tourists head home.

But if I’m being honest? I needed a break from thoughts of a certain bright, maddeningly compelling woman who still hasn’t given me an answer about the partnership.

Five years as a Marine officer taught me to move when ordered. Sixteen years out, and I’m still following the same playbook. Except now I’m moving toward complications instead of away from them .

It’s been three days since I made the offer, and I’m already driving myself crazy wondering what she’s thinking.

And then there she stands.

Amber’s at the clearance bin near the front window, crouched down, rifling through flip-flops. Mason bounces a rubber octopus on her shoulder while Crew flips through sunglasses, holding each one up as though auditioning for a music video.

I should turn around. Walk out. Pretend I never saw her struggling to find affordable shoes for her kids while I’m standing here with money in my pocket.

Instead, I stand here watching her.

She rises, walking toward the register with two pairs of flip-flops tucked under one arm. Her shoulders appear tense. She’s doing math in her head. Budget math. I know that expression.

Hazel’s already at the counter. Amber steps up next.

“Hey,” she says. “I’ve got these two.”

Hazel glances at the tags, then waves a hand. “Don’t even worry about it.”

Amber stiffens. “Hazel...”

“I’m serious. Clearance shoes don’t count as real merchandise on Saturdays. Consider it the barefoot baby discount.”

Amber’s jaw tightens. She pulls out her card and taps it. The machine beeps .

Hazel clears her throat. “Would you mind trying one more time? For some reason, it didn’t take.”

Amber freezes. Not dramatically, only a tiny pause in her shoulders. She tries again with the same result.

My stomach drops. I recognize what’s happening here.

This moment I should walk away. Let her handle her own problems.

But then she checks her phone, muttering, “My electric bill must’ve gone through early. I’ll move some over.”

And something in my chest snaps.

Before she can fumble with another card, I step up beside her and slide a twenty across the counter.

“Consider it a local tax rebate,” I say, trying to sound casual. “For being the only adult brave enough to shop with kids during Labor Day weekend.”

Amber turns around, her cheeks flushing pink. “Oh no, Brett, you don’t have to...”

“They’re flip-flops, Bennett.”

“Really, I can handle it,” she says softly, gratitude mixed with embarrassment in her voice.

“It’s not charity. It’s hot. They need shoes. I was here. End of story.”

Hazel snatches the bill and hands me the change with a smile that’s way too smug.

“Thanks, Brett. Very neighborly of you. ”

Amber tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, managing a small smile. “Thank you. Really.”

“No need,” I mutter, already regretting drawing attention to the situation.

She gathers the boys, ruffling Mason’s hair. “Come on, beach bums. Let’s go find some waves.”

Outside, the parking lot shimmers with heat waves. I catch up as she buckles the kids into her minivan.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” she says, meeting my gaze with those bright eyes.

“I know.”

She closes the door gently, then turns to face me with that smile that could power the entire town. “But I’m glad you did. The boys have been planning this beach day all week.”

“They’re only flip-flops,” I say gruffly.

“To you, maybe. To them, they’re the difference between a perfect beach day and disappointed faces.” She laughs. “Mason’s been practicing his ‘beach walk’ all morning. Apparently, there’s a specific technique.”

My mouth almost twitches. “Beach walk?”

“Very serious business. Involves a lot of arm swinging and dramatic stomping.” She demonstrates with a few exaggerated steps, and I have to turn away before she catches me almost smiling.

“Sounds complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated when you’re four.” She pauses, studying my face. “You know, you’re not nearly as grumpy as you pretend to be.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Too late. I’ve already seen evidence to the contrary.” She opens her car door, then glances back. “Thanks again, Brett. For everything.”

I thought coming to the beach would clear my head after that parking lot conversation. Turns out I was wrong.

Here I am, twenty minutes later, stretched out under the umbrella I bought, with my brand-new boogie board still in its plastic wrapper. And all I can think about is the way she appeared when she said she’d pay me back.

That’s when I spot them coming down the boardwalk.

Mason’s practically bouncing off the wooden planks as though powered by pure sugar.

Crew’s behind him, adjusting his fishing tackle box with serious focus.

And Amber? She’s managing both boys while carrying that massive striped tote bag, appearing as though she’s got everything under control even though I can tell she absolutely doesn’t.

I should turn away. Give her space.

But I can’t seem to manage it.

“Stay close!” she calls to Mason, who’s already plotting his next escape route. “And don’t you dare face-plant in the sand again!”

The kid giggles, which even I know spells trouble.

That’s when it happens. Mason stops short. Amber trips over him. Crew stumbles into the mix. And suddenly all three are going down in what can only be described as a family pile-up of epic proportions.

I’m on my feet before I think about it. But then I catch myself. Because the last thing she wants right now remains me swooping in to help.

So I stand here, watching her sit up and spit sand, appearing thoroughly disheveled.

“Are you going to swim?” Crew asks, already peeling off his shirt.

“I wasn’t planning on it.” She laughs, still brushing sand off her legs. “But when life gives you sand in uncomfortable places, you might as well rinse it off in the ocean!”

Mason giggles. “You said uncomfortable places!”

“Very technical beach terminology,” she says solemnly, which makes him giggle harder. “Now, who wants to see if we can find any mermaids?”

“Mermaids aren’t real, Mom,” Crew says.

“That’s exactly what the mermaids want you to think,” she whispers conspiratorially.

She hesitates for exactly half a second. Then she stands up and peels off her tank top and shorts in one fluid motion.

And I forget how to breathe.

Her swimsuit appears to be this vintage-style thing, modest but flattering, teal like the ocean on a clear day. She appears confident and beautiful and completely at ease.

She knows I’m watching. Has to. Because there’s this moment where she glances in my direction, and I swear I see satisfaction flash across her face when she catches me staring.

Then she grabs the boys and runs for the water, and I’m left standing here as though someone hit me with a two-by-four.

I sit back down, pick up my book, and pretend to read while really watching her play with her kids in the surf. She’s completely unselfconscious with them. Splashing and shrieking and letting Mason convince her that a piece of seaweed remains definitely a shark.

This remains what she’s like when she’s not stressed about money or jobs. This remains Amber in her element, playful and present and absolutely captivating.

When they finally head back up the beach, the boys run ahead, chasing some poor crab. And Amber walks straight toward me.

Water’s still dripping from her hair. Her skin’s flushed from the sun and cold water .

I lower my book because there’s no pretending I wasn’t watching.

“You know,” she says, plopping down onto the sand near my umbrella without invitation, “most people bring a book to the beach because they actually plan to read it.”

I grunt and hold up the paperback. “I’m reading.”

“Really? What’s it about?”

I glance down at the cover, realizing I have no idea what I’ve been staring at for the past twenty minutes. “It’s... educational.”

“Come on, Walker. What’s got you so grumpy today? You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The one that says ‘everyone should leave me alone to brood in peace.’ Very dramatic. Very brooding hero.” She grins. “Are you practicing for a romance novel cover?”

I scowl deeper, which only makes her laugh.

“Maybe I came here for peace and quiet.”

“At the beach? During Labor Day weekend? With kids everywhere?” She gestures toward a nearby family where three children are having a sand-throwing contest. “That’s like going to a fireworks show for the silence.”

“Some of us prefer quiet activities.”

“Such as staring at people instead of reading swoony romance novels? ”

The heat in my neck spreads to my ears. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Brett Walker, you’ve been watching me and the boys for the past half hour as though we’re the most fascinating reality show ever.

” She lies back on her elbows, completely unfazed by my glowering.

“Which remains fine, by the way. We’re very entertaining.

Mason’s got a whole routine involving crab negotiations. ”

“Crab negotiations?”

“Very serious diplomatic work. He’s convinced they’ll share their shells if he offers them the right snacks.” She grins. “Yesterday he spent twenty minutes trying to barter a goldfish cracker for what he called ‘borrowing rights’ to a hermit crab shell.”

I set my book down. “Maybe I don’t enjoy fun.”

“Nope. Don’t buy it. I’ve seen you almost smile. Multiple times. So I know you’re capable of human emotion.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

“It’s a start though. Baby steps toward becoming a full human being instead of a grumpy construction robot.”

“Maybe I’m too old for fun.”