Page 111 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“At least your timing runs consistent,” she says with a weak smile. “Crisis management seems to be our specialty.”
I can practically see Amber’s brain spinning through worst-case scenarios. It’s one of the qualities I love about her—how thoroughly she thinks through problems. It’s also one of the qualities keeping her awake at three in the morning worrying about disasters that might never happen.
“What if Chad can drag this out for months, though?” she says, sinking onto the bench beside me. “We don’t have deep pockets for legal battles, Brett. The restaurant opening alone stretches us thin.”
And here’s where I need to be honest with her. Because we’re partners, and partners don’t keep secrets about the important stuff.
“Actually,” I say, taking her hand, “we’re in better shape than you realize. The property investments with Jack have been doing really well. We can afford the best lawyer in the state if we need to.”
She nods, some tension leaving her shoulders. “Good. Really good.”
“Chad can drag this out until he’s old and gray. We’ll still be standing.”
My mom’s Subaru Outback—the same car she’s been driving for at least a decade—pulls into the parking lot.
Mom climbs out looking like a woman who drove seven hours expecting to celebrate and instead found a disaster zone. She takes one look at our shut-down food truck and Amber’s expression, and her face shifts into full maternal problem-solving mode.
“I came as soon as I got your text,” she says, marching over with the determination of a woman about to fix everything through sheer motherly force. “What kind of crisis are we dealing with?”
“Health department complaint,” I explain. “Anonymous tip about food safety violations. We’re shut down pending investigation.”
Mom’s face cycles through several expressions before settling on righteous indignation. “Well, nonsense. Who would do such a thing?”
“Amber’s ex-husband,” I say grimly. “Chad Peterson. He showed up right after the complaint went through, looking very pleased with himself.”
“Ah.” Mom’s expression darkens in a way I remember from childhood when neighborhood bulliesmade the mistake of messing with her kid. “One of those.”
Mom starts organizing our scattered napkins and unused condiment packets, because apparently family crises are the perfect time for aggressive tidying. It’s a genetic trait I definitely inherited.
“Well,” she says, somehow making napkin-folding look therapeutic, “the health inspector sounded about as convinced as someone reading a grocery list. Very by-the-book, zero personal investment.”
Amber lets out a shaky laugh. “You think so?”
“Honey, I’ve been dealing with bureaucrats since you were in diapers. He was following procedure, not passion. There’s a difference.”
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number this time.
Hope you enjoyed today’s preview. This is just the beginning. - A friend
My blood turns to ice water. I show the text to Amber, watching her face go pale.
“Someone else is involved,” she whispers.
Before I can respond, anothertext comes through. This one with a photo attached.
It’s a picture of Amber and me kissing outside her cottage last week.
“Brett,” Amber’s voice is barely steady now. “Someone’s been watching us.”
A third text:Pretty little pictures. Wonder what the town council would think about their potential caterer’s... personal arrangements.
A cold and dangerous anger settles in my chest. Every protective instinct I have goes into overdrive. “Someone’s been stalking us, Amber. Taking pictures, building a case, trying to show we aren’t stable enough to build this restaurant together.” I scroll through the messages, each one making me angrier. “This is coordinated. Planned.”
She stares at the photos on my phone like they’re evidence of some terrible crime. Which, honestly, they are. “Those are from last Monday after we had dinner. We were followed home.”
The violation of it hits me like a physical blow. Someone has been watching us, turning our sweet moments into ammunition.
“I can’t do this,” Amber says suddenly.
