Page 38 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“See? I’m not completely hopeless with tools,” I say after successfully avoiding the wires.
“Jury’s still out on that,” he mutters, which makes me want to prove him wrong.
“Excuse me? I’ll have you know I can fix anything with creativity and determination.”
“That explains the diner’s aesthetic.”
“Hey! That place had character.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
I take a swing at the wall with maybe a little more force than necessary. “For your information, that diner had more personality in its broken coffee maker than most places have in their entire dining room.”
“Personality. Right.”
His dismissive tone makes me want to hit something, which is convenient since I’m holding a sledgehammer.
“You know what your problem is?” I say, taking another swing.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Your problem is that you think everything has to be practical and efficient and perfectly planned. You don’t appreciate the beauty in things that are a little broken, a little imperfect.”
“I appreciate things that work.”
“Not everything valuable is about function, Brett. Some things matter because they have heart.”
“Heart doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Neither does being a grumpy perfectionist who’s afraid to care about anything.”
The words hang in the air between us, and I immediately regret them. But Brett just picks up his own sledgehammer with a shrug.
“Good thing we’re just business partners then. No caring required.”
The casual way he says it stings more than it should. Fine. If he wants to be all business, I’ll show him just how professionally cheerful I can be.
I swing my hammer with renewed enthusiasm, channeling my frustration into productive demolition. There’s deep therapy in destroying things you’re allowed to destroy, especially when your business partner is being infuriatingly indifferent to everything that doesn’t involve blueprints and building codes.
I’m feeling pretty confident until I take my second swing and somehow manage to ricochet the sledgehammer off a particularly stubborn stud. The rebound sends me stumbling backward directly into Brett’s very solid, very warm chest.
His hands come up to steady me automatically, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of every point where his body is touching mine. For a heartbeat, his professional mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of heat in those storm-gray eyes.
“Easy there,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago.
I turn in his arms to apologize and find his faceinches from mine. The air between us crackles with the tension we’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
“I should probably... aim better,” I whisper.
“Probably,” he agrees, but his hands don’t drop from my waist immediately.
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. For a moment, I want him to. But then his expression shuts down again, and he steps back like I’m made of something dangerous.
“Try to keep better control of your equipment,” he says, his voice back to business-like efficiency.
The dismissal stings, but I paste on my brightest smile. “Of course! Can’t have workplace accidents affecting our professional partnership.”
Something flickers in his eyes—irritation, maybe frustration. But he just nods curtly and picks up his hammer again.
