Page 1 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
ONE
MICHELLE
October in Twin Waves arrives with crisp coastal air that whispers promises of fresh beginnings.
My coffee shop, Twin Waves Brewing Co., sits on the historic boardwalk, weathered by decades of Atlantic salt air. The 1940s building still holds its original charm—wide-plank pine floors and massive windows that frame the ocean. Those floor-to-ceiling windows flood everything with golden light that makes even my disasters look romantically windswept.
Behind the restored lunch counter sits my pride and joy: a gleaming copper espresso machine. The display case showcases cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates, sweet potato biscuits that could make grown men weep, and my legendary scones—built from my grandmother’s secret recipe, packed with local blueberries, apple cinnamon, or cranberry orange. People drive from three counties over for these beauties.
The shop buzzes with its usual rhythm—fishers needing coffee strong enough to power boats, commuters grabbing fuel for spreadsheet survival, and regulars who understand my coffee shop isn’t just about caffeine. It’s about community.
“Those scones are perfect enough forFood & Wine,” Mr. Bennett calls from his corner table, second black coffee in hand.
“Perfection is a journey,” I manage, adjusting one more apple cinnamon scone because ownership has turned me into a person with strong opinions about pastry geometry.
He studies my face with concern. “You’re wound tighter than my fishing line during tuna season. Is everything alright?”
“Just caffeinated,” I lie, forcing brightness into my voice. Admitting the truth—that uncertainty makes my chest squeeze like I’m about to drown—isn’t an option. I’ve already learned what happens when you trust too much.
Mrs. Hensley sweeps through the door with royal authority, claiming her window throne. “Michelle, dear, autumn is the most romantic season. The changing leaves make people open to possibility. I can sense it in my bones, which are more accurate than the Weather Channel.”
“My bones are committed to making coffee,” I reply.
Mrs. Hensley delivers that look suggesting my resistance to romance ranks somewhere between temporary delusion and psychological breakdown. “This season’s bringing changes. The leaves aren’t the only things about to turn.” She narrows her eyes at the boardwalk. “Just look at Reed Development Corporation swooping in with their so-called ‘progress.’ Nothing progressive about bulldozing history.”
Reed Development Corporation. The name lodges in my chest, but before I can press for details, Caroline storms through the door.
Caroline is twenty, Jack’s daughter, and looks as if she rolled out of bed into a thrift store explosion. Today’s ensemble features a hoodie three sizes too big, eyeliner sharp enough for emergency surgery, and the general aura of a college kid personally offended by existence.
“Oh look, my favorite caffeine dealer,” she announces, collapsing against the counter. “I need the strongest thing you have. Economics class is murdering my will to live.”
“How’s the paper progressing?” I create her usual caramel macchiato, adding the cinnamon she pretends not to love.
“Fantastic. Nothing says ‘thrilling pursuit’ like dealing with sustainable development in coastal communities.” She wraps her hands around the mug. “I need to interview local business owners. Want to be my guinea pig?”
“I’m not sure my business model of ‘panic quietly while serving coffee’ qualifies as sustainable development.”
“Please. You know everyone’s secrets the second they order lattes, and you’ve got the town convinced this place is free therapy with caffeine addiction.”
The door chimes, bringing October air and?—
My heart does that stupid flutter it’s been perfecting despite my brain’s lectures about emotional unavailability and developing feelings for customers who communicate in prehistoric grunts.
Grayson Reed walks through my door. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair battling the coastal breeze, and brown eyes that catalog everything.
Crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. My most reliable customer. Double espresso, twenty percent tip, conversational skills of an antisocial brick wall.
But today he stops at the display case and actually looks at my scones with NASA-level focus.
“Those apple cinnamon ones,” he says, voice carrying gravelly morning quality that could dissolve concrete, “they’re... different today.”
Grayson Reed just made voluntary conversation about pastry.
“Different how?” I manage, voice pitched higher because my vocal cords decided to be weird today.
“Bigger,” he says. “I mean—they’re always substantial. But today they’re...” He gestures vaguely.
“The size of small aircraft carriers?”
