Page 46 of Cooking Up My Comeback
I look at her—hair escaping from its ponytail, cheeks flushed from the heat and excitement, eyes bright with satisfaction. She looks like someone who’s just remembered how powerful she is when she’s doing what she loves.
“I’m really glad you said yes.”
“Even though I nearly took out a load-bearing wall with a sledgehammer on day one?”
“Especially because of that. Shows you commit fully to whatever you’re doing.”
She laughs, nudging my shoulder with hers. “You know what this means, right?”
“What?”
“No backing out now. We’re officially in this together.”
And for the first time since I came to Twin Waves, the thought of being locked into plans that stretch beyond my usual timeline doesn’t make me want to check road maps and job listings.
It makes me want to start planning tomorrow.
Which should terrify me. Instead, it’s like coming home.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and mean every word.
ELEVEN
AMBER
“Mom! Dad!” I call out, waving them over from our booth. “Perfect timing!”
They’re approaching with all three kids in tow—Mason bouncing like he’s powered by pure sugar, Crew carrying a stuffed lobster that I’m pretty sure wasn’t part of the original plan, and Tally trailing behind wearing sunglasses like she’s incognito.
“We heard there was some kind of food revolution happening over here,” Dad says, surveying our setup with the critical eye of someone who’s eaten at every restaurant within a fifty-mile radius.
Brett straightens from where he’s been cleaning the grill, wiping his hands on his apron with what I’ve learned is his default expression when faced with social interaction—like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett,” he says with a curt nod.
“Just Tom and Linda,” Mom says warmly. “And we’re dying to try whatever’s been making the whole festival smell incredible.”
“We sold out about an hour ago,” I say, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “But I saved some crab sliders for family quality control.”
Brett mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “of course you did” while aggressively scrubbing an already-clean pan.
“What was that?” I ask sweetly.
“Nothing. Just wondering if you’ve designated official taste-testers for every batch we make.”
“Only the important ones. Family gets priority. That’s good business sense.”
“Right. Business sense.” He sets down the pan with more force than necessary. “Not emotional decision-making at all.”
Mason tugs on my apron. “Can I have cotton candy now?”
“After you try Mama’s cooking,” I tell him, already plating the reserved sliders and shooting Brett a look that says, “Be nice to my family.”
He responds with a look that says, “I’m always nice,” which we both know is a lie.
I watch my parents take their first bites, that familiar flutter of nerves hitting my stomach. Dad chewsthoughtfully. He’s got the most honest palate of anyone I know. Mom’s eyes close for a second, which is always a good sign.
“Amber,” Dad says finally, “this is restaurant quality. No, this is better than most restaurants.”
