Page 54 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“She’s not wrong about that either,” Jack says quietly.
I drain the rest of my beer and stand up. “I should go. Early morning tomorrow.”
“Brett.” Jack’s voice stops me at the door. “For what it’s worth, she’s good people. Amber. And those kids... they could use someone who sticks around.”
“I’m not going anywhere. We have a restaurant to build.”
“Right. The restaurant.” Jack nods. “Just remember. Some things are worth staying for. Even when they scare you.”
I head home with his words echoing in my head and the uncomfortable realization that maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to understand what he means.
By midmorning, I’m at The Salty Pearl again, oversized coffee growing lukewarm in the October heat. The place is humming with activity—ductwork going in, electricians calling measurements, someone hauling a stack of subway tile toward the kitchen.
We’re in the thick of it now. Walls up, floors sealed, decisions being made daily that’ll shape what this place becomes. The financial reality hits me at moments like this. I’m carrying her salary, the construction costs, the permits, the insurance. It’s more money than I’ve ever committed to a single project.
More money than I’ve ever invested in something I might actually want to keep. The thought makes me uncomfortable, so I push it aside. Last time I invested this much in permanence, I lost everything in an instant.
Amber walks through the door wearing a navy baseball cap with her ponytail pulled through the back, black leggings, and a coral hoodie that saysMom Mode: Activated.She looks like she’s been managing three different breakfast preferences and a homework crisis, but somehow still has everything under control.
The sight of her walking into this space—our space—hits me with something I’m not ready to examine too closely.
“Morning,” I say, holding out her iced coffee like a peace offering.
She takes it with a grateful sigh. “You spoil me.”
“You look like you’ve already put in a full day’s work.”
“Mason decided his dinosaurs needed individual breakfast menus. Crew’s working on a presentation about sustainable fishing practices.Tally’s pretending she’s too cool for high school but secretly stressed about her college essay.”
“Sounds like a typical Tuesday.”
“Pretty much.” She takes a long sip of coffee and surveys the controlled chaos around us. “Please tell me we’re still on schedule.”
“We’re actually ahead of schedule. Turns out having a partner who knows exactly what she wants makes everything move faster.”
She pulls out her notebook, the same battered composition book she’s been carrying since day one, now filled with measurements and supplier notes. “So the spice rack wall goes here,” she says, pointing to the space beside the main prep station. “And I want a chalkboard right there for daily specials. Handwritten, personal.”
“Crew still lobbying for the fresh catch board?”
“Every day. He’s designed a rating system for different fish based on sustainability and taste profiles.” She grins. “I’m raising a tiny marine biologist who moonlights as a food critic.”
There’s pride in her voice when she talks about her kids, even when she’s clearly exhausted from managing them. It’s one of the things I’ve started to notice about her—how she finds joy in their chaos instead of just enduring it.
Not that I’m paying attention to things like that. We’re business partners.
An hour later, we’re deep in tile placement debates when Hazel breezes in carrying an armload of fabric samples and enough wedding planning materials to stock a bridal boutique.
“Sorry to interrupt the construction zone,” she says, setting everything down on our makeshift planning table. “Amber, quick question about the food tasting for the reception?”
I step back, giving them space to discuss catering logistics, and use the opportunity to check in with the electrician about dining room lighting. When I turn back, Amber’s cheeks are flushed, and she’s staring at a paper in her hand like it might explode.
“Everything okay?” I ask as Hazel heads out with promises to call later about cake flavors.
“Hazel gave me my official maid of honor duties list.” She holds up what looks like a small novel printed on wedding-themed stationary. “Being in a wedding requires more project management skills than running a restaurant.”
“Nervous?”
“Terrified. I’ve never been in a wedding before. What if I mess up the bouquet toss? What if I trip walking down the aisle? What if?—”
