Page 110 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Damage control. Business terms for the death of a dream.
“Right,” I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. “Pack everything up. Call the health department to schedule their inspection. Figure out how to explain this to everyone who was counting on us.”
Like the catering contract we’ll definitely lose now. The restaurant opening we’ll have to postpone indefinitely. The investors who’ll hear about this and run the other direction.
But I don’t say any of that. Because Brett’s standing there looking at me like I hung the moon, and Mom’s already organizing the church ladies to help us pack up.
“Come on, dear,” Margaret says, patting my shoulder with gentleness. “Let’s get this sorted. Sometimes the best action you can take is facing the storm head-on.”
I wish I had her confidence. “Right now, facing the storm feels like walking into a hurricane with nothing but an umbrella.”
“Then we face this together. Whatever our personal stuff is, we’re partners in this business. And nobody destroys our business on my watch.”
The fierce protectiveness in his voice does things to my heart I’m not ready to examine. But standing here in the wreckage of our New Year’s debut, I’m grateful he’s choosing to stay and fight instead of running like his fears told him to.
Even if everything else between us remains uncertain, at least I know Brett Walker doesn’t abandon ship when storms hit.
Some New Year’s Day this is turning out to be.
But maybe, with the right partner, even disasters can be survived.
TWENTY-FOUR
BRETT
Standing in this beach pavilion feels like witnessing the aftermath of a very small, very personal tornado. All remaining: our shut-down food truck, disappointed neighbors heading to their cars, and the kind of silence following when a girl’s dreams get publicly demolished.
I’m watching Chad’s silver sedan disappear down the coastal road, my hands still clenched into fists wanting very badly to introduce themselves to his smug face. Every protective instinct I have screams to follow him and explain, in terms he’ll understand, exactly what happens when he messes with Amber.
The remaining beach walkers disperse with sympathetic looks and confused murmurs. Some seem genuinely sorry for us. Others look suspicious, as though maybe there really was something wrong withour food. Chad’s timing was absolutely perfect, the snake.
Amber’s still standing by our food truck, looking like Christmas was canceled and her puppy ran away. The sight of her shell-shocked expression makes the protective fury flare up all over again.
But then I remember what Jack told me about relationships and how Hazel needed a partner, not a white knight and the best action he ever took was standing beside her instead of in front of her.
Right. Partnership. Not heroics.
“Are you okay?” she asks, which is so perfectly Amber I almost laugh despite everything. Her entire business got torpedoed by her vindictive ex, and she’s checking on me.
“I should be asking you this,” I say, moving closer but giving her space to breathe. “How are you holding up?”
She nods, but I can see the shock lingering in her eyes. The slight tremor in her hands she’s trying to hide. “I can’t believe he actually did this. Filed a fake complaint to watch us fail.”
“He’s counting on us giving up,” I say, settling onto the picnic table bench. “Bad calculation on his part.”
My phone buzzes with a text.
Mom: Just got to Twin Waves! Perfect timing for New Year’s. Where are you?
Me:Beach pavilion. Fair warning. We’re having a crisis.
Three dots appear immediately, then.
Mom:Should I bring wine or bail money?
“Was your mom texting?” Amber asks, reading my expression.
“She arrived in town for New Year’s. About to get the full disaster report.”
