Page 118 of Cooking Up My Comeback
I lean against what I assume is the counter to observe her celebrate, but it’s the industrial dishwasher. The door swings open. I lose my balance completely and fall backward into the machine. My legs stick out at weird angles, and there’s a spray nozzle jabbing me in the ribs.
“Brett!” Amber rushes over, attempting not to laugh as she helps extract me from kitchen equipment. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I grunt, trying to maintain some dignitywhile untangling myself from the dishwasher’s interior. “Testing the structural integrity.”
“Of course you were.” She fails at hiding her grin. “Very thorough inspection process.”
I finally stand, and my shirt is soaking wet from the spray nozzle and clinging to me in ways that make Amber’s eyes go wide.
“I should probably change.”
“Yeah, you should,” she agrees, then seems to realize she’s staring and turns bright red.
We both stand there for a moment, me dripping dishwater and her studying anything but my wet shirt, until I clear my throat.
“So, about those gas connections,” I say, moving carefully away from any machinery that might try to swallow me whole.
I open the freezer, check the fryer temperature, and test the gas connections while maintaining distance from appliances that might swallow me. Everything’s exactly as it should be, except for my focus when she’s nearby and my apparent inability to lean against objects without falling.
“Fire suppression system?”
“Tested and certified.” She opens a cabinet displaying organized shelves of plates and glasses. “Justin finished the last of the electrical work yesterday. We’re completely ready.”
We walk back into the dining room. I can picture itfilled with families, couples on date nights, the fishing crew coming in after long days. The community space Amber envisioned, where people can see their stories and feel welcome.
She settles into one of the chairs to test the comfort level. “Soft opening for friends and family this weekend, then we’re live.”
“How are you feeling about it?”
“Terrified. Excited. Ready to throw up or run a marathon.” She grins. “Normal restaurant owner feelings. The marathon would be less scary.”
My phone buzzes with a text.
Crew: Can we see the restaurant before it opens? Mason wants to know if his suggestions made it into the final design.
“The kids want a preview tour,” I tell her.
“Of course they do. Mason’s been asking daily about ‘his’ restaurant. Yesterday he informed me he’s the ‘official taste tester’ and needs to approve everything before we open.” She laughs. “I told him we’d do a family walkthrough before the soft opening.”
Family. The word still catches me off guard sometimes, how naturally it’s come to include me.
“What about tonight? I could pick up pizza, we could have dinner here. Let them see everything finished.”
“They’d love it.” She pauses, studying my face in a way that makes me want to check if I have somethingin my teeth. “You appear different when you’re in here.”
“Different how?”
“Happy. Really, genuinely happy instead of your usual charming grumpiness.”
“I don’t have charming grumpiness.”
“Brett Walker, you absolutely have charming grumpiness. It’s your signature move. Very brooding hero meets friendly neighborhood contractor.” She steps closer, and I automatically step back directly into the rope detail on the bar.
The decorative rope catches my boot, and suddenly I’m doing some kind of awkward backward dance, arms windmilling as I try to keep my balance. Amber reaches out to steady me, which only makes things worse because now we’re both tangled in nautical décor, her hands on my chest, my arm around her waist, faces inches apart.
“This is not how I imagined testing the bar area,” I mutter.
“Really? Because this seems very on-brand for you,” she says, slightly breathless. “First the dishwasher, now maritime equipment. Are you planning to personally inspect every piece of furniture by falling into it?”
