Page 87 of Cooking Up My Comeback
His grin could power the whole house.
This is what I want to be good at. Not just the big romantic gestures or serious conversations, but the everyday disasters and the flour explosions and spilled milk that come with loving people who are small and unpredictable and absolutely worth it.
Dinner happens an hour later around a table that’s seen countless meals and will see many more. Jack says a simple grace that includes gratitude for “new friends becoming family.” I have to swallow hard past the lump in my throat.
Mason raises his cup in a toast. “To Build-It Man!”
The cup wobbles, tips, and sends chocolate milk cascading across the table in a brown river.
“It’s ocean soup now!” Mason announces, like he’s discovered a new food group.
“Ocean soup with chocolate seasoning,” I add, reaching for paper towels. “Very sophisticated cuisine.”
“Should we taste it?” Crew asks, always the scientist.
“Absolutely not,” Amber says, but she’s laughing.
“I’ll try it,” I offer, earning horrified looks from the adults and delighted squeals from the kids.
“Don’t you dare,” Amber warns, eyes sparkling.
“What? It might be the next big culinary trend. Ocean-to-table chocolate milk fusion.”
“You’re encouraging them,” she says.
“Someone has to support their creative endeavors.”
I mean it. These kids should know their ideas matter, even the messy ones.Especiallythe messy ones.
The doorbell rings as we’re clearing plates. Something complicated crosses Hazel’s face before she forces a smile.
“That’ll be Mads and Spencer. They managed to squeeze us in after all.”
Through the window, I see them on the porch—Mads looking tired, Spencer checking his phone like he has somewhere more important to be.
“I’m so glad you came!” Amber says when Hazel opens the door, giving Mads a genuine hug.
“Me too,” Mads says with real relief. “I’ve been thinking about your stuffing since Thanksgiving.”
“Sorry we’re running behind,” Spencer says, still looking at his phone. “My parents’ thing went longer than expected.”
Hazel’s smile tightens. I remember her mentioning how disappointed she was that Mads chose Spencer’s family Christmas over theirs.
“Well, you’re here now,” Hazel says warmly. “Brett, you remember my daughter Mads? She works at the boutique downtown.”
“Of course. Good to see you both.”
Spencer shakes my hand with one of those gripsthat’s trying to prove something. I keep mine normal. No point in games.
“Actually, Mads, we shouldn’t stay too long,” Spencer says. “I told my parents we’d swing by again.”
Mads’s face falls. “But we just got here. And I wanted to actually eat some of Amber’s cooking.”
“We ate at my parents’—”
“We picked at tiny appetizers while your mom explained her investment portfolio for two hours.”
Tension flickers before Ellen saves the day.
