Page 125 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Brett’s smile could power the entire restaurant. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Some items are worth fighting for.”
He pulls me into his arms right there behind the bar, and I don’t care who’s observing. When he kisses me, it tastes of possibility and partnership and the sweet promise of everything we’re going to build together.
When we break apart, I realize something filling me with wonder.
I’m not afraid anymore. I’m excited. Genuinely, completely excited for what comes next.
“So what now?” I whisper against his lips.
“Now we enjoy our party,” Brett murmurs back, hiseyes dancing with mischief. “Tomorrow we tell Chad’s lawyer exactly where he can put his settlement offer.”
“And after that?”
“We get ready for our grand opening. We show this whole town what we’re made of.”
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him again, tasting salt air and confidence and the sweet promise of everything we’re going to create together. When we break apart, I’m breathless and grinning and absolutely certain.
“I’m ready,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says, spinning me around until I’m dizzy with laughter and pure, uncomplicated joy. “Because I have a feeling the best is yet to come.”
As the evening winds down and our loved ones start to head home, each stopping to hug us and rave about the food and the atmosphere and how proud they are, I realize something that takes my breath away.
This isn’t simply a restaurant. It’s a dream made real. It’s proof that sometimes, if you’re brave enough to reach for what you want and lucky enough to find someone willing to reach with you, beautiful events really do happen.
Even the parts with glitter.
And definitely the parts with fighting back.
Tomorrow we face Chad and whatever he throws at us. But tonight, surrounded by love and laughter and the warm glow of success, I’m not worried about tomorrow.
I’m absolutely thrilled about it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
BRETT
The line outside The Salty Pearl stretches down the block. Our grand opening exceeds every expectation, and I should be thrilled. The dining room is packed, the kitchen runs smoothly, and half of Twin Waves has shown up to support us.
Instead, I’m standing behind the host station with a knot in my stomach.
Chad’s here.
He walked in twenty minutes ago with a smug smile and what appears to be his new girlfriend—a blonde half his age wearing too much perfume and an expression suggesting she’d rather be anywhere else. They’re sitting at table twelve, right in the center where everyone can see them.
He ordered our most expensive bottle of wine andmade a show of studying the menu like he’s a food critic for theNew York Timesinstead of a guy who considers gas station hot dogs fine dining. But I know why he’s really here. He’s making a statement. Asserting dominance. Showing the whole town that he’s not going away quietly.
“Brett?” Amber appears beside me, her face flushed from the kitchen heat. She looks beautiful but frazzled, her hair escaping from its ponytail and her apron dusted with flour. “Table six is asking about the fish special, and Mrs. Sanders wants her usual tea even though it’s not on the menu, and?—”
She stops mid-sentence when she follows my gaze to table twelve.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “He actually came.”
“Apparently so.”
Chad catches her staring and raises his wine glass in a mock toast. The gesture is subtle enough that most people would miss it, but the message is clear:I’m not done with you yet.
