Page 16 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Tomorrow, I’ll drive past Twin Waves Brewing Co. and see her through the window, probably serving commuters with thesame warmth she’s shown me. I could stop in, order my usual double espresso, pretend tonight never happened.
But everything’s changed. She’s not just the barista who makes perfect coffee anymore. She’s the woman who showed me what real community leadership looks like. Who fights for her beliefs with intelligence and grace. Whose approval I apparently care about more than I recognized.
Caroline’s words echo:Think about what Twin Waves means to you personally.
I have been thinking about that. About how this little coastal town feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived. About how Michelle’s coffee shop represents what I didn’t know I was missing. About how fighting her feels wrong, even when professional obligations demand it.
About how somewhere between opposition and attraction, I started wanting what I haven’t wanted in years: to belong somewhere that matters. To someone who matters.
And whether Michelle Lawson could ever see me as anything other than the enemy trying to destroy everything she’s built.
FIVE
MICHELLE
I’m in my third hour of what Caroline calls “The Great Coffee Machine Staring Contest,” which sounds infinitely better than “Michelle Has Lost Her Mind Over the Most Dangerous Man in Twin Waves.” The coffee machine is winning by default because it doesn’t make my pulse race with one predatory glance.
My stomach still feels hollow, jittery with too much caffeine and not enough answers. Every time I think about his voice cutting through yesterday’s committee meeting, my chest tightens like a belt’s cinched around my ribs. My hands want to move—wipe counters already clean, rearrange napkins into perfect alignment—but I force them flat against the counter, pretending I’m calm while my nerves snap like live wires.
“Most people make coffee by actually using the equipment,” Caroline observes from her homework pile. “But telepathic brewing could be your new superpower.”
Caroline lifts her phone. “One for the shop page—community partners hard at work.”
Grayson angles his body away on reflex. “Don’t put me on the internet.”
“It’s just Stories,” she says.
“That’s still the internet,” he mutters, setting his mug dead-center over the phone camera like it’s a safety cap.
“I’m processing yesterday’s committee meeting.” I try to sound composed despite the chaos banging around in my chest. “Planning for community development opportunities.”
“Is that what we’re calling your complete meltdown over Grayson Reed being insufferably attractive while arguing municipal policy?”
She’s devastatingly accurate, but admitting that feels like surrender.
“I prefer ‘tactical assessment of collaborative challenges.’ A completely normal response to working with another who treats smiling like a personal weakness.”
“Right. And I’m studying calculus for recreational pleasure.”
The bell chimes ominously, and my pulse leaps like it’s been waiting all morning for the sound.
Grayson. Of course. His usually immaculate dark hair is disheveled—clear evidence of frustrated fingers dragging through silk strands. There’s a coffee stain on his white shirt, and the sight triggers an unexpected spike of territorial irritation that I immediately bury with a smile.
“Morning, Grayson.” My voice carries just enough edge to qualify as professional courtesy. “Exploring other coffee establishments, I see.”
He stops dead, eyes narrowing at my tone. The air between us shifts, charged with the kind of electricity that should require safety warnings.
“Michelle.”
Just my name, delivered like a dark promise wrapped in velvet. The single word makes my spine straighten and my carefully maintained composure crack slightly.
“I realize I’ve committed the unforgivable sin of disrupting your sacred morning ritual,” he continues, approaching my counter.
He produces a folder that looks like it survived natural disasters, and my treacherous heart performs elaborate gymnastics that have nothing to do with municipal planning. “I’ve done some research on coastal agriculture I wanted to share with you.” He hands me the folder.
I suck in a breath, examining papers that represent hours of work. Hours he spent thinking about what I said, what I care about. “This is incredibly thorough. Look at all this soil composition data, drainage system analysis...”
His scowl deepens, heat banked beneath the gruff. “I spent half the night trying to figure out why you looked at me like I’d proposed bulldozing an orphanage.”
