Page 92 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“Yeah. It was.”
As we sit there in the gathering dusk, her head on my shoulder and the sound of her kids’ laughter drifting through the screen door, I can’t shake the feeling that this is moving fast. Maybe we’re both falling into something we’re not ready for.
But then I think about Mason calling me Build-It Man like it’s my superhero name. Crew trusting me with his serious observations. Tally teasing me about liking her mom.
I’m not sure I can be what they need.
But what if loving them is exactly enough?
TWENTY-ONE
AMBER
Dad’s boat rocks in the harbor as I watch him explain proper bait technique to Crew, who listens as if Dad reveals the secrets of the universe. In Crew’s mind, he probably does.
“Hook it through the eye socket,” Dad says, demonstrating with a piece of shrimp. “Keeps it on the line better, looks more natural.”
“Does it hurt the shrimp?” Crew asks, because my kid who can read water currents still worries about crustacean feelings.
“Nah, buddy. Shrimp’s gone to shrimp heaven. We’re giving it one last chance to be useful.”
“Oh good. I thought maybe they had shrimp families missing them.”
Brett stands beside me at the rail, close enough forme to feel warmth radiating from his skin. He wears a faded blue button-down with rolled sleeves, and when he moves, I catch glimpses of those forearms appearing in my thoughts way too much lately. The morning sun catches silver threads in his dark hair, and his concentrated scowl makes even innocent conversations feel loaded with tension.
I’m drowning in trouble. Ocean-deep trouble.
“Your dad shows patience with him,” Brett says, watching Crew attempt his own bait-hooking under Dad’s supervision.
“They’ve been fishing together since Crew could hold a rod. Dad claims he has better instincts than most adults.”
“Kid has focus.”
Something grudging colors Brett’s voice, as though he’s impressed despite himself. Three weeks ago, he would have made some comment about kids creating distractions. Now he actually watches Crew with genuine interest.
“Maybe you should try it sometime,” I suggest. “Fishing. Might help with that permanent scowl.”
“I don’t scowl.”
“Right now you’re scowling at a perfectly innocent shrimp bucket.”
Mom’s voice drifts from the cabin below. “Remember when Amber was Crew’s age and named every fish she caught? She’d throw them back andwave goodbye. ‘Bye, Frederick! Have a good life, Beatrice!’”
“Mom,” I groan.
“Then there was the time she convinced Grandma Pearl to let her cook her first whole fish. Her grandmother was so proud until Amber served it with the head still on and spent dinner apologizing to it.”
Brett’s mouth twitches—the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen from him all morning. He’s spent the morning in full grumpy mode since we left the dock, probably because I dragged him out here at dawn without enough coffee.
“I was seven,” I protest. “It seemed wrong to waste any part.”
“She cried for an hour,” Mom adds helpfully.
“At least I didn’t spend my childhood scowling at perfectly good fish,” I mutter, loud enough for Brett to hear.
His eyebrow raises. “I don’t scowl.”
“You scowl right now.”
