Page 93 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“This constitutes my thinking face.”
“Your thinking face looks remarkably similar to your everything-else face.”
Dad hooks fresh bait and hands the rod to Crew. “Show me what you learned, Captain.”
“Can I try casting to that spot where the water changes color?” Crew asks, pointing toward a patch of deeper blue. “Fish like the temperature breaks, right?”
“Smart boy. Go for it.”
Brett moves closer to watch, his arm brushing mine as he leans against the rail. The contact sends sparks up my arm, which seems ridiculous. I’m a grown woman with three children and a business to run. I should not get flustered by accidental arm contact.
But then he turns to look at me with those storm-gray eyes, and my brain stops working entirely.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low. “You look... flushed.”
“Fine,” I manage, though my voice sounds breathless. “The morning sun...”
“It’s barely sunrise.”
“Very... powerful sunrise.”
His eyes flick to my lips for a heartbeat before returning to the water. “Yeah. Me too.”
Oh no. I’m drowning in serious trouble.
“Fish on!” Crew shouts, his rod bending dramatically. “It’s a big one!”
Dad moves behind him, guiding his hands. “Easy, buddy. Let him run, then reel back. Keep the tip up.”
“He’s fighting hard! Must be a really good fish!”
“Or a really grumpy fish,” Brett observes. “Some of us don’t like being woken up early.”
Crew’s face shows pure concentration as he follows Dad’s instructions. Brett watches with an expression I can’t read—softer than his usual careful control, as though he’s seeing something surprising him.
“He excels at this,” Brett says.
“Gets it from Dad.”
“What about you?”
“Better at cooking them than catching them. Though I did catch an eighteen-inch red drum when I was twelve. Dad still talks about it.”
“Eighteen inches. Impressive.”
“Good day.” I pause, watching Crew land a small croaker. “This place... these waters... they flow in our blood. Four generations of my family have fished these channels.”
“And now you’re turning that into a business.”
There’s something skeptical in his tone that makes my spine stiffen. “Yes, I am. Problem with that?”
“Just wondering if you’ve thought through the logistics. Seasonal availability, weather delays, minimum orders that might not get met.”
“Of course I’ve thought about it. I’m not some dreamy-eyed optimist who thinks good intentions are enough.”
“Could have fooled me.”
The words sting more than they should. “Excuse me?”
