Page 44 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Neither do I.
For about three heartbeats, we’re just standing there, her warmth seeping through my shirt, the scent of hershampoo mixing with beautifully seasoned seafood. And for three heartbeats, I forget why keeping professional distance is important.
Then someone calls out an order, and we spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted.
“Order up!” she announces, sliding plates across the counter with slightly flushed cheeks.
Professional. We’re being professional. Partners running a business together. Nothing more.
Except for the way she keeps stealing glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. And the way I’m hyperaware of every time she brushes past me to reach for supplies. And the way we seem to be developing our own language of gestures and half-finished sentences.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. Getting too comfortable, too invested, too attached to something that’s supposed to be temporary.
“How many more crab sliders?” I ask during a brief lull.
“Twelve. Maybe fifteen if I stretch the mix.”
“Fish tacos?”
“Plenty. I may have overestimated people’s adventurous spirit when it comes to seafood.”
“Their loss.”
She laughs, wiping sweat from her forehead. “I forgot how much I love this. The rush, the chaos, the satisfaction of watching people’s faces when they taste food that actually has flavor.”
“Missing the diner?”
“Not even a little bit. Well, maybe I miss Bernice. But definitely not the broken equipment.”
A new wave of customers approaches, led by a family with three kids who look like they’re on a sugar high from too much cotton candy.
“What do you recommend?” the mother asks, studying our menu board.
“Both options are excellent,” I say, then catch Amber’s amused look. “But if you’re feeling adventurous, the fish tacos are worth trying. If you want familiar but elevated, go with the crab sliders.”
“We’ll take four sliders and two tacos,” the father decides.
While Amber works, I find myself watching the kids. The youngest, probably around Mason’s age, is eyeing the fish tacos with deep suspicion.
“Is it spicy?” he asks.
“Not spicy,” Amber calls out from behind the grill. “Just tasty. Like fish that went to flavor school and graduated with honors.”
The kid giggles, and just like that, he’s won over. It’s a small moment, but it hits me that this is what Amber does. She doesn’t just cook food. She creates connections. She makes people feel welcome, understood, cared for.
The family takes their food to a nearby picnic table, and I watch as they take their first bites. The parentsexchange one of those looks that says this is way better than expected. The kids dive in like they haven’t eaten in days.
“We might have a problem,” I murmur to Amber.
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where people actually like this food and expect us to have a restaurant to serve it in.”
“That’s not a problem. That’s the goal.”
“I know. It’s just...” I pause, trying to articulate the growing unease in my chest. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
She stops plating to look at me. “Getting cold feet, Walker?”
