Page 17 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“That wasn’t disapproval.” My laugh comes out sharper than I intend. “That was passionate civic engagement. I care about preservation and community spaces.”
“Passionate,” he repeats, testing the word. “You keep using it.”
Caroline snorts into her coffee. “You two realize you’re flirting, right?” Her phone is already up. “This is perfect for Instagram. Flirting captionedcollaboration.The algorithm loves a narrative.”
Grayson’s jaw ticks. “Algorithms creep me out.”
“Relax. It disappears in twenty-four hours.”
“Concrete lasts longer than twenty-four hours,” he says. “So do screenshots.”
“Caroline.” Heat crawls up my neck. She’s not wrong. That’s the problem.
His jaw works like he might grunt his way out of the moment; instead his gaze pins me. “That’s… a specific assessment.” His voice is rougher than usual, like gravel shifting.
“She has a very analytical read on social dynamics,” I say too fast, trying to sand down the tremor in mine.
“Michelle.” Just my name, deliberate. It lands low, clipped and uncertain, and my knees don’t care—they go soft anyway.
His glance flicks to Caroline, then back. “And what do your social dynamics say about this?” The words come halting, as if each costs him.
“That we’re two professionals trying to collaborate,” I whisper, though it sounds unconvincing even to me.
His fingers tap once against the counter, betraying a flicker of nerves. Then, quieter: “Feels more like strategy.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t analyze anything.” But the breathless hitch in my voice betrays me.
“No?” His voice drops, rough enough to scrape against my control. “Then what… kind of analysis is this?”
The question lands heavy, and my composure fractures. Heat rushes my cheeks, and his gaze flicks toward the color like he’s caught it by accident. He doesn’t smile—his jaw just works once, tense, betraying more than he probably wants.
“The professional kind,” I manage, though it sounds pitifully unconvincing.
He huffs—almost a laugh, almost a grunt. “Professional,” he repeats, the word flat, like he’s testing it for cracks.
I whirl to the espresso machine, clinging to ritual, but my hands shake. His presence behind me is a physical thing, burning at my shoulder blades.
“Yesterday’s meeting,” he says, low and clipped. “We didn’t finish.”
The portafilter slips. The steamer shrieks, and I flail to contain the eruption. A cloud of steam explodes into the air, carrying half the napkin dispenser with it. White paper drifts down like embarrassed snow.
“Oh no,” I mutter, my usual composure cracking wide open.
Grayson moves fast—faster than I’d expect—catching mugs before they shatter. Our hands collide over one teetering cup, and the jolt that shoots through me is ridiculous. I yank back, straight into the steam wand. More fog hisses into the air.
Through the haze, a sound escapes him—low, almost startled. Not quite a laugh, not quite a growl, but it does nothing to steady my coordination.
“Need… help?” he asks at last, words rough-edged with reluctant amusement.
“Just enhancing your coffee experience,” I quip weakly, napkins clinging to my hair.
Caroline looks up, eyes shining. “Michelle, you’re literally decorated in paper products.”
I swipe napkins from my apron with what dignity I can salvage. Grayson’s eyes track the movement, sharp and unreadable, as though he’s committing the scene to memory against his will.
“Memorable,” he says finally. The word comes out tight, like it costs him something.
The rest of the morning is interruptions, each one dragging tension like an anchor. I smile, pour coffee, play professional. But every time someone cuts in, his jaw ticks, his shoulders stiffen—like the man has no patience for being thwarted.
