Page 18 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
The bell gives a prim little ding and Penelope Waters glides in on a ribbon of white-tea perfume and soft leather. Pearls. Cream blazer. Kitten heels. The kind of designer tote that could fund my espresso beans for a month.
“Michelle, sugar.” Her smile is buttered toast—warm and somehow still dry. “Last night’s meeting was positivelyspirited. The mayor said your remarks were… memorable.” A delicate tap to her pearls, like a metronome for judgment. “Robust discourse becomes our little town, of course. Optics do, too.”
She clocks Grayson at my counter—takes him in, head to toe, the way a jeweler inspects a stone.
“Mr. Reed.” A gracious nod. “We do love to see outside investment take such an interest in heritage properties.”
“Ms. Waters,” he returns, voice sanded smooth.
Penelope turns her smile back on me. “A teensy, perfectly boring governance note, darling—purely foroptics. While certain… personal developments are in the air, a brief step back from the Preservation Subcommittee would simplysingintegrity. No one would question your ethics if you continued, naturally, but donors can be so frightfully literal. I’d hate for your passion to be… misinterpreted.”
She sets a manila envelope on the counter with two manicured fingertips. “And because last night raised such invigorating questions, the county sent along a routine compliance packet—occupancy, ADA clearances, little housekeeping matters we all forget until we don’t.” A bright, pitying smile. “If you’d like my permitting liaison, I can text an introduction. He moves mountains.”
Heat pricks under my collar. “We’ve managed our filings before,” I say, pleasantly, because that’s the weapon I know how to use.
“Of course you have.” She pats the envelope as if she’s blessing it. “You’re a marvel of self-reliance. Do put this on today’s list. The sooner, the better.”
She orders a cappuccino “truly dry, but silky,” and pays with a black card.
At the door she glances back, pearls clicking once. “Weallwant what’s best for Twin Waves.” The smile never reaches her eyes. “Welcome to the work, Mr. Reed.”
The perfume lingers long after the door shuts. So does the envelope, bright and heavy as a threat.
Grayson’s jaw tightens; a tendon jumps. “Private review of those committee materials?” he asks, voice low enough to be mistaken for patience.
I slide the envelope under the counter like it might bite. “Caroline, can you cover the shop for a minute?”
“You got it, boss lady.”
We take the folder to the back room, and the air between us follows—hot, inevitable.
The space feels impossibly intimate when he closes the door behind us, trapping us with nothing but coffee supplies and enough unresolved tension to power the entire building.
“Is it always this chaotic?” he asks, but his focus is fixed on my face with an intensity that makes maintaining pleasant composure feel like physical labor.
“The fall gets busier,” I admit, settling behind my desk and immediately regretting it when he takes the chair across from me. Now we’re close enough that I can see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, can feel the dangerous pull of attraction disguised as community development.
He spreads his research across my desk, and I’m struck by the intimacy of it—these pages he printed in the small hours because of what I said, because of me.
“This is exceptional work,” I say, examining his articles while trying to ignore how his proximity makes my pulse race. “Incredibly thorough research. You clearly invested significant effort in understanding the agricultural challenges.”
“I spent the night trying to figure out what makes you so passionate about this place,” he says quietly, and the admission hits like lightning through my composure.
I look up to find him watching me with an expression that’s part challenge, part confession, and entirely dangerous to my equilibrium.
“Twin Waves is home,” I say simply, though my voice wavers. “It’s worth protecting.”
“Is that what this is about?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. “Protecting Twin Waves?”
The question carries weight that has nothing to do with municipal planning. Heat builds in my cheeks as his eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity.
“Of course. Community preservation is?—”
“Michelle.” My name rumbles out of him, low and sharp, cutting through my chatter like a blade. “Stop.”
“What?” My voice shrinks, stripped of its brightness.
“Stop hiding behind… all that.” He gestures vaguely, like he can’t bring himself to say the wordpleasantness.
