Page 69 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Something fierce flares in my chest. The same feeling I got when Chad questioned my judgment. When the health inspector made me feel like I’d failed. When anyone suggests that wanting something isn’t the same as deserving it.
“Sophisticated doesn’t mean soulless,” I say, standing straighter. “And it doesn’t mean ignoring what this community actually needs.”
Penelope blinks, clearly not expecting pushback. “Of course not. I just think it’s important to be realistic about what we’re up against.”
“We’re not up against anything,” Brett says. “We’rebuilding something this town will actually want to come back to.”
“Well.” Penelope’s smile falters slightly. “I suppose we’ll see what the council decides.”
She heads for the door, pausing to press the bakery box into my hands. “Enjoy the macarons, sweetheart. They’re imported lavender. Very sophisticated.”
After she leaves, the kitchen feels different. Like her presence somehow made everything smaller.
Brett exhales slowly. “Well. That was about as subtle as a brick through a window.”
I stare at the box in my hands. “Think she’s bluffing about the Charleston group?”
“No. I think she’s absolutely not bluffing.”
My shoulders sag. “Great. So now we’re not just building a restaurant. We’re competing against some culinary empire with food critic connections.”
“Good,” Brett says, taking the box from my hands and setting it on the counter with unnecessary force. “Competition makes us better.”
“Or it makes us roadkill.”
“Not if we’re better than they are.”
“How are we supposed to be better than people with proven track records and magazine reviews?”
“By being real,” he says simply. “By caring about this place and these people instead of just profit margins and press coverage.”
I lean against the counter, looking around at ourflour-dusted chaos, the mixing bowls, the recipe cards, the lingering scent of butter and possibility.
“You really think that’s enough?”
“Against imported lavender cookies and corporate cuisine?” He grins. “Every single time.”
We clean up in relative silence, both of us processing Penelope’s visit and what it means for our presentation to the council. But there’s something different about the way we move around each other now. Less careful. More sure.
When Brett reaches across me for a dish towel, he doesn’t immediately step away. When I hand him plates to dry, our fingers brush, and neither of us pretends it was an accident.
“You know what I realized tonight?” I say, wiping down the counter.
“What?”
“I’m tired of people telling me what I can’t do. Chad, Penelope, my own inner critic.”
Brett pauses in his dish-drying. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe it’s time I stopped being so careful about everything.About the restaurant, about taking risks, about...” I gesture between us. “About this.”
“This?”
“Our...situation. I keep waiting for permission or guarantees or some sign that it’s safe to care about you. But maybe safe isn’t the point.”
He sets down the dish towel and turns to face me fully. “What is the point?”
“Maybe the point is that you showed up. You stayed. You’re standing in my kitchen at ten-thirty at night helping me plan our defense against corporate competition.”
