Page 12 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Relocation assistance. First option on commercial space in the new development. Partnership opportunities that could benefit everyone.”
I stare at him, processing whether he’s actually serious. “You want to help me relocate so you can tear down my building more efficiently?”
“I want solutions that work for everyone involved. This project benefits the entire community, Michelle. Construction jobs, increased tax revenue, tourism growth that supports local businesses?—”
“At the cost of everything that makes this community worth visiting in the first place.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” I gesture around the coffee shop. “Will your upscale development have a place where neighbors actually talk to each other instead of hurrying past?”
He hesitates, and then says, “It will have modern amenities and professional management.”
“Not the same thing, and you know it.”
Silence stretches while half of Twin Waves watches our personal drama unfold. Tension crackles between us like static electricity before a storm. Their attention weighs on me—their expectation that I’ll either capitulate to reasonable-sounding offers or deliver cutting responses destined for local legend status.
“Michelle,” Grayson says quietly, “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But fighting this development won’t save your coffee shop. It will just make the transition harder for everyone.”
“Then at least I’ll know I tried to preserve what actually matters instead of rolling over for progress that benefits everyone except the people who live here.”
He studies my face with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. What does he see? Stubborn defiance? Hopeless romanticism? The same person who serves him coffee every morning, or a woman he never really knew at all?
“This isn’t over,” he says finally.
“No. It’s not.”
After he leaves, the coffee shop buzzes with conversation. Mrs. Hensley holds an impromptu meeting about “development politics” and “young people today who don’t understand compromise.” Mads shoots sympathetic looks while pretending to study her phone, clearly filing away details for future analysis.
I stand behind my counter, replaying every word and wondering why part of me is disappointed that Grayson Reed turned out to be exactly the calculating businessman I should have expected.
Even though another part noticed how his eyes looked genuinely hurt when I rejected his partnership offers.
Even though I keep remembering the way he said my name, as if it meant something to him.
The enemy shouldn’t look hurt when you reject their reasonable destruction of your life. The enemy definitely shouldn’t make you question whether you’re fighting the right battle or just fighting because the alternative means trusting again.
Outside the window, Grayson’s truck disappears down Ocean Avenue, and I can’t shake the feeling this war will be more complicated than anyone anticipated.
Including me.
Mrs. Hensley’s knowing look burns into my back as the afternoon crowd slowly returns to their conversations, and I suspect the complications have only just begun.
FOUR
GRAYSON
Small-town politics serves three main courses: packed venues, passionate opinions, and front-row seats to someone’s public humiliation. Tonight, that honor belongs to me.
The community center has become the eighth wonder of the world—an architectural marvel showcasing how two hundred humans can occupy a space designed for fifty. Dean, the fire chief, would have a nervous breakdown if he were here. Folding chairs borrowed from three different churches create a maze that would challenge a GPS-enabled mountain goat, while stragglers press against walls with the desperation of sardines questioning their life choices.
Mrs. Hensley commands prime real estate with territorial authority. Her reading glasses catch the fluorescent light as she fixes me with a stare that could freeze hellfire and probably has. They’re all about to get their money’s worth of entertainment.
Michelle sits front row center with her book club army flanking her in formation that would make Napoleon weep with envy. She’s traded her usual coffee-stained apron for a navy blazer that screams, “I’m about to save the world and destroy developers while looking fabulous.” Her blonde hair is twistedback in what I’ve dubbed her “demolishing corporate dreams with devastating logic” look.
Those warm brown eyes turn fierce when she’s passionate about her work, capable of melting construction-grade steel and my ability to form coherent sentences. It’s watching Clark Kent become Superman.
Scott nudges my arm. “Remember—jobs, revenue, tourism. Simple facts. No getting distracted by the opposition’s... presentation skills.”
