Page 20 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Figures what?” I ask, hating how breathless I sound.
At the door, he glances back, eyes locking on mine with unsettling intensity. His jaw ticks once before he says, voice low and unpolished, “You’re not what you look like.” A beat. “Too much fire under all that shine.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the faint trace of his cologne—and me staring after him, heart racing, with the awful, exhilarating suspicion that my so-called composure isn’t armor at all. It’s tinder.
By six o’clock, I’m climbing the narrow wooden stairs to my apartment, each creaking step a reminder that this building has survived longer than I have—unlike my carefully maintained equilibrium, which Grayson demolished in under an hour.
My apartment opens into a space that’s equal parts sanctuary and evidence of my romantic delusions. The living room showcases Jo’s rescued furniture: a deep blue velvet sofa found abandoned behind the ferry terminal, a coffee table that started life as a ship’s hatch cover, and bookshelves converted from old ship ladders.
Those shelves hold my completely reasonable collection of four hundred romance novels, every single one ending with a lady getting adored by a man who initially seemed impossible to love.
I’m contemplating this uncomfortable parallel when my phone buzzes.
Jessica: Emergency. Your place. Bringing wine.
She’s pounding up my stairs before I can respond, bursting through my door with wine and a predatory expression.
She also waves a manila envelope like a warrant. “Caroline said Penelope dropped this on your counter after the meeting.” A sticky note clings to the flap in elegant loops:Deadlines gallop. —P. “Something happened with Grayson Reed,” she announces without preamble. “Don’t even try to deny it.”
“Nothing happened,” I say automatically, though my pulse quickens just hearing his name. “Professional meeting about community development.”
Jessica stares at me with incredulity, then gestures at my romance novel shrine. “You’re surrounded by stories about brooding developers and sunshine heroines, and you expect me to believe your private meeting resulted in discussing drainage systems?”
“Those are entertainment,” I protest weakly.
“Entertainment with highlighting and sticky notes marking every scene where the hero admits he’s been fighting attraction since page one.” She pours wine. “Caroline live-tweeted your morning romantic warfare.”
My stomach drops. “She what?”
“Michelle emerged from the steam cloud looking like she survived flirtatious combat while Grayson watches with predatory satisfaction,” Jessica reads from her phone. “Tension thick enough to require industrial ventilation.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “She did not?—”
“She did. Forty-three likes and Mrs. Hensley started a betting pool—fifty dollars on a HEA by Halloween.”
I collapse onto my rescued sofa, surrounded by hundreds of romance heroes who suddenly feel like they’re judging my denial.
“He’s impossible to work with,” I manage. “Arrogant. Completely inflexible.”
Jessica plucks a dog-eared novel from my shelf and flips to a highlighted passage. “She told herself his arrogance was insufferable, but when he looked at her with those dark eyes that seemed to see through her carefully constructed walls, her pulse raced with longing she refused to name.”
I stare at her in horror.
“Your margin note here says, and I quote:Yes. The way he sees through her defenses is so hot.” She fixes me with a knowing look. “Research notes?”
I grab the book and slam it shut. “Character analysis.”
“You’ve created a shrine to happily-ever-after filled with stories about impossible men who challenge sunshine heroines until they burn brighter than they ever imagined possible.” Jessica settles beside me with wine. “And when presented with your very own impossible man who clearly wants to tear down every professional boundary between you, your response is soil composition?”
“His research was thorough,” I whisper.
Jessica laughs—pure delight mixed with exasperation. “Men don’t research coastal agriculture at two AM for professional obstacles. They research it for women they’re trying to understand, impress, or date.”
I glance around my apartment, really seeing it: the romance collection organized by subgenre, the reading nook with perfect lighting, the vintage clothes chosen to make me feel like a heroine.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I really am living in a romance novel.”
“Enemies-to-lovers with small-town matchmakers,” Jessica confirms happily. “You’ve got betting pools, live commentary, and a brooding developer who spent all night researching your passionate interests.”
