Page 18 of Cooking Up My Comeback
SIX
BRETT
The 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.
