Page 63 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“Brett—”
“No, you’re right. It’s betterto keep things simple.” I grab my clipboard and head toward the kitchen area. “Speaking of which, the electrical inspector is coming tomorrow. We should make sure everything’s ready.”
We spend the next hour reviewing permit applications and construction timelines, but something’s shifted. There’s a careful distance where there used to be easy partnership. We’re both trying so hard to prove Chad wrong about the personal complications that we’re accidentally proving he was right about everything else.
“Hand me that measuring tape,” Amber says, not looking at me directly.
“Which one?”
“The one by your elbow.”
I pass it over, making sure our fingers don’t touch. Professional. Safe.
“We need to finalize the bar layout,” she says, unrolling the tape. “The bar stools are being delivered next week.”
“Right. Bar layout. Very important.”
She shoots me a look. “Are you going to be weird about this?”
“Weird about what? I’m being professional. Just like you wanted.”
“That’s not what I—” She stops herself, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
We measure in silence for a few minutes. It’s the most awkward we’ve been since our first day working together, when we were still trying to figure out if we could stand each other.
“You know,” I say finally, “Chad’s an idiot.”
“I know that.”
“But you’re still letting him get in your head.”
“I’m being practical.”
“You’re being scared.”
She straightens up, measuring tape still in her hands. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re letting your ex-husband dictate how you run your business because you’re scared of what people might think.”
“I am not?—”
“He shows up here with his fake watch and his rehearsed speech about risk management, and suddenly you’re ready to put walls up between us that weren’t there an hour ago.”
“Those walls should have been there from the beginning.”
“Why? Because you might actually want something for yourself?”
The words come out sharper than I intended, but I’m tired of watching her shrink herself down to make other people comfortable.
“That’s not fair,” she says, but there’s less conviction in her voice.
“Isn’t it? You built this place from nothing. You’ve got suppliers lined up, investors secured, a vision that’s going to blow away everything else in this town. But the second someone questions your judgment, you start second-guessing everything.”
“I’m not second-guessing the restaurant.”
“Just us.”
The word hangs between us, heavy with all the things we’ve been trying not to say.
