Page 119 of Cooking Up My Comeback
We’re still tangled together, and I’m acutely aware that her lips are close to mine and she smells of vanillaand determination. My face is probably the color of a stop sign.
“It’s a thorough quality control process,” I say weakly.
“Uh-huh.” But she’s not pulling away, and neither am I, and for a moment the only sound is the hum of the walk-in cooler and my heart doing something that can’t possibly be medically advisable.
Before I can respond, my phone rings. The caller ID makes my stomach drop.
Chad’s lawyer.
Amber sees the name, and her expression immediately shifts from playful to guarded. All that happiness, that excitement about our finished space, disappears behind walls I thought we’d torn down.
“Don’t answer it,” she says quietly.
“He’ll keep calling.”
“Then let him. Maybe he’ll get bored and find a new hobby. Competitive knitting or extreme birdwatching.”
But I’m already accepting the call, because avoiding Chad hasn’t worked so far.
“Mr. Walker? I’m calling with a final offer from my client.”
“We’re not interested in any offers.”
“You should hear this one. Mr. Peterson is prepared to drop all legal challenges and provide positive references to local suppliers if Ms. Bennett agrees to a consulting partnership.”
“What kind of consulting partnership?”
“Twenty-five percent of profits in exchange for his marketing expertise and local connections. He’s built relationships in this community that could be very valuable to a new restaurant.”
My jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack. “She doesn’t need his connections.”
“My client has many friends in the local business community. It would be unfortunate if Ms. Bennett found herself facing... complications.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Simply that business can be unpredictable. Permits get delayed, suppliers have issues, reviews can be harsh. My client’s support could prevent such unfortunate circumstances.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left standing there wanting to throw my phone through the beautiful windows we installed.
Amber’s studying me with an expression I haven’t seen since January. That careful blankness she uses when she’s expecting the world to fall apart.
“What did he want?”
I tell her about the offer, the thinly veiled threats, the deadline. With every word, she retreats into herself.
“Twenty-five percent,” she says quietly.
“We’re not considering it.”
“Aren’t we?” She stands, walking to the windowthat overlooks the harbor. “Brett, we’re a week from opening. If he starts a campaign against us now...”
“Then we fight back.”
“With what? Good intentions and my legendary stress-baking skills?”
“With the truth. With this.” I gesture around the beautiful space we’ve created. “With the fact that everyone in this town knows what kind of man Chad is.”
“Do they? Because from where I’m standing, he appears to be a successful businessman offering to help his poor, struggling ex-wife’s cute little restaurant project.”
