Page 15 of Cooking Up My Comeback
The 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 ratheravoid. 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.
