Page 16 of Cooking Up My Comeback
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 theedges 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 sayscomplicatedmakes 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.”
He almost cracks a smile at that. Almost. For a split second, I catch a glimpse of the man underneath all that defensive armor, and it makes me want to keep poking until I find more cracks.
Which is probably exactly the kind of thinking that terrifies him.
“I have three kids,” I say, because that reality shapes every choice I make. “I can’t afford to take risks with their security.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not softer, exactly, but more focused. Like he finally understands what’s at stake.
“Kids need more than just security,” he says quietly. “They need to see their mom believing in herself.”
The words hit me right in the chest where I keep dreams I’ve been too scared to examine closely.
“What would the partnership look like?” I ask, my practical side kicking in like a protective older sister. “Profit sharing? Decision making? What happens if we disagree?”
He sits back, like he’s surprised that I’m asking business questions instead of running away screaming.
“Equal partnership. I put up initial capital, you put in expertise. Split profits fifty-fifty after expenses.” He pauses, considering. “Kitchen and menu are yours. I handle business operations. Anything else, we discuss.”
“And if we can’t agree?”
“Then we figure it out,” he repeats, like it’s the only answer he’s got.
