Page 82 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“Good to know,” I say, though my voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Is it? Good to know?”
I look up to find her watching me with that same guarded expression from when I first walked in. Like she’s testing dangerous ground.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
She nods once, a decision made, and gathers her things. “I should pick up the kids. Last day of school before Christmas break.”
“Need help carrying anything to your car?”
“I’ve got it.” She pauses at the door. “Brett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not making this more complicated than it already is.”
“Thank you for not giving up on me when I was being impossible about your ideas.”
“You weren’t impossible. You were thorough. Annoyingly thorough, but thorough.”
She smiles—the first completely unguarded smile I’ve seen from her in weeks—and heads out into the December afternoon.
I watch through the window as she loads her carwith papers and Christmas presents she’s been hiding in her trunk. The woman who spent the morning turning bureaucratic disasters into business opportunities is now switching seamlessly into mom mode, probably running mental lists of gift wrapping and holiday cookies.
The duality shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it does. She makes everything look effortless when I know she’s juggling more than most people could handle.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Amber: Crew wants to know if you’re coming to his fishing presentation at school tomorrow. Apparently, he mentioned you in his report about local fishing techniques. Something about the bass fishing tips you shared during our equipment testing day.
I stare at the message, something warm and terrifying unfurling in my chest. Because somewhere between permit applications and food truck logistics, I’ve become part of their daily conversations. Part of their world in ways that have nothing to do with business partnerships.
Me: What time?
Amber: 2 PM. Fair warning. Mason will probably ask if you brought your pirate hat.
Me: I’ll see what I can find.
Amber: You don’t actually need a pirate hat.
Me: Says who?
There’s a pause before her response comes through.
Amber: You’re going to fit in just fine.
I pocket the phone and lock up the restaurant space, that warm feeling still spreading through my chest. Because despite all my careful boundaries and professional distance, Amber Bennett and her kids are becoming less likebusiness associates and more like... family.
And for the first time in years, that doesn’t scare me.
It feels like coming home.
NINETEEN
AMBER
Christmas morning, I’m standing at Hazel’s gorgeous marble counter—because of course she has marble counters now that she’s the fancy restoration queen—carefully transferring slices of Grandma Pearl’s famous apple cranberry pie from the carrier to Hazel’s best serving plates. The recipe that took me three failed attempts to master, even with Grandma’s handwritten notes that look like they were penned by someone having a passionate argument with the English language.
