Page 55 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Her phone buzzes, cutting off her spiral. She glances at the screen, and her whole expression shifts from nervous excitement to resigned irritation.
“Chad?” I guess, and immediately regret asking. Not my business.
“Canceling his weekend with the kids. Again. Costa Rica with...” She squints at the screen. “Brittany. Or maybe it’s Bethany. They all blur together.”
Something dark and protective flares in my chest before I can stop it. The urge to say something about fathers who treat their children like optional weekend entertainment is almost overwhelming.
But it’s not my place. We’re business partners.
Amber shoves the phone in her pocket and takes a shaky breath. “Sorry. Personal drama. Not your problem.”
“You don’t have to apologize for having a life outside this restaurant.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and she looks at me with surprise.
“I just meant... you don’t owe me explanations about your personal stuff.”
“Right. Professional boundaries.” Her voice has a slight edge to it now. “Speaking of which, I should probably figure out childcare for this weekend since their father apparently has more important places to be.”
“Amber—”
“It’s fine. Really. I’m used to it.” She turns back to her notebook with forced cheer. “So, tile placement. Where were we?”
But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the wayshe’s gripping her pencil a little too tightly. And despite every instinct telling me to stay out of it, I find myself saying, “The kids could hang out here for a few hours if you need. I’ll be working anyway.”
She looks up, surprise flickering across her face. “That’s... you don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to. I’m offering.”
“Why?”
The question catches me off guard. Because I want to help? Because seeing her stressed makes something in my chest ache? Because those kids are starting to matter to me in ways I’m not ready to acknowledge?
“Because we’re partners,” I say finally. “Partners help each other out.”
“Right. Partners.” She studies my face for a moment, like she’s trying to figure something out. “That’s... thank you. That’s really nice of you.”
“Don’t read too much into it. I’ll probably put them to work organizing tile samples.”
She laughs, and some of the tension leaves her face. “Mason would love that. He’s got very strong opinions about color coordination.”
Before I can respond, the sound of rapid footsteps echoes through the restaurant, followed by Mason’s voice: “Mom! Emergency pirate meeting!”
He barrels through the front door like a small hurricane, followed closely by Crew carrying a stack of library books about maritime history.
“What’s the emergency?” Amber asks, immediately shifting into mom mode.
“Crew says pirates only ate hardtack and oranges, but I know they ate other stuff because I saw it in a movie!”
“Pirates ate whatever they could get,” Crew says with the patience of someone who’s had this argument before. “Hardtack was ship food because it didn’t spoil. And they needed citrus to prevent scurvy.”
“But what about pirate chicken? And pirate pizza?”
“Those aren’t real foods, Mason.”
Tally appears in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder and the expression of someone who’s already mentally checked out. “Dad dropped us early,” she announces. “Costa Rica prep, apparently.”
Amber’s jaw tightens slightly, but she keeps her voice level. “Well, you’re here now. Perfect timing to see the progress on the kitchen.”
