Page 15 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Then what is it about?” The question carries real curiosity rather than accusation, which is more dangerous than hostility because it invites actual conversation.
Several safe, professional answers present themselves before I settle on dangerous honesty. “You know what? I’m not entirely sure anymore. When I started this project, I thought I knewexactly what Twin Waves needed. Now I’m wondering if I should have asked what Twin Waves wanted.”
Michelle tilts her head, studying me with intensity. “That’s either refreshing honesty or excellent strategy designed to make me lower my guard.”
“Probably both,” I admit, which makes her laugh—a genuine sound that does unfortunate things to my heart rate and definitely catches Scott’s attention from across the parking lot.
Jessica appears beside Michelle with perfect timing, like she’s been observing this interaction and decided it needs managing. “We should head out. Early morning tomorrow, and you still need to finalize the petition language.”
“Right,” Michelle says, but she doesn’t immediately move to leave. “Mr. Reed, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What made you choose Twin Waves for this project? I mean, there are plenty of coastal communities that would probably welcome development with fewer questions and less organized resistance.”
It’s a fair question, and several answers present themselves that don’t reveal more about my personal feelings than I’m comfortable sharing with the leader of the opposition while Scott hovers within earshot.
“At first, the research made it look simple—good tourism potential and not much existing development to get in the way.”
“At first?” she repeats, catching the words I probably shouldn’t have emphasized. “What about now?”
The community center, the cars and trucks in the parking lot, the small groups of residents still talking on the steps. Caroline, who’s observing this conversation with fascinated attention. Michelle, who’s waiting for an answer with patience.
“Now I think Twin Waves might be the kind of place where people could actually belong,” I say, immediately regretting the honesty.
Michelle’s expression softens slightly. “That’s either the most honest thing you’ve said since this whole conflict started, or you’re much better at strategy than I gave you credit for.”
“Definitely the first one,” I say, which is probably a mistake but feels necessary.
As they walk away, Caroline calls back over her shoulder with casual confidence, “Mr. Reed? You should really think about what Twin Waves means to you personally. Not just as a business opportunity.”
When I get home, Reggie greets me with a bock, but other than that, it feels too empty, too sterile. Clean lines, minimal everything, chosen for efficiency over comfort. No coffee shop warmth, no community energy, no Michelle making small magic happen with every interaction.
I pour two fingers of bourbon and settle in my favorite chair, Reggie watching over me from his perch.
Professionally, I presented solid arguments backed by real data. The economic benefits are legitimate, job creation substantial, tourism potential significant. But Michelle’s questions stick. Development for whom? Progress toward what? Building community or bulldozing it?
Scott keeps warning me not to get emotional about this project, but that ship sailed somewhere between morningespresso and municipal warfare. Michelle has gotten completely under my skin—not just her opposition to my project, but her genuine investment in Twin Waves’ wellbeing. Her ability to see everyone as worthy of consideration. Her intelligence and passion and the way she fights for what matters.
I’m attracted to her competence, which spells either excellent judgment or complete professional disaster.
My phone buzzes.
Scott: Good presentation. Don’t let them mess with your head. Remember the timeline.
Too late for that advice.
Reggie flies down to the floor and jumps on the sofa beside me, his wings beating furiously. He pecks at my watch, one of his favorite ways to greet me.
“Hey, boy. You hungry again?” I pet his soft feathers and glance over at his food container. Still full. Maybe he’s just sensing my mood tonight.
He squawks and flies away as if my petting has offended him. Finicky fellow has more mood swings than a woman with PMS.
I finish my drink and consider the coming weeks. More meetings, more pressure, more opportunities to study Michelle rally her troops while I argue for progress. More chances to pretend this is strictly business while drowning in awareness of her every gesture.
I never paid attention to how her eyes light up when she talks about community events or acknowledged how she remembers everyone’s coffee preferences. Never considered that I look forward to those morning conversations for reasons having nothing to do with caffeine.
Now I can’t stop paying attention, and it’s becoming a problem.
