Page 21 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
I lean against my mint green vintage refrigerator. “Even if there were attraction—which there isn’t—it would be impossible. He’s sophisticated, successful. Probably dates women who wear designer everything.”
“You’re gorgeous, brilliant, and built a thriving business from nothing,” Jessica counters firmly. “Jerry Hutchins walked into a glass door because you smiled at him when you were wearing that yellow dress.”
“He has depth perception issues.”
“He has Michelle Lawson issues. Don’t underestimate your power.”
Jessica refills our glasses with a satisfied smirk. “Based on Caroline’s intelligence, this is about to get very interesting.”
Outside, the waves crash onto the beach as tourists pack up for the night. But inside, surrounded by hundreds of happily-ever-afters and Jessica’s knowing smile, I suspect my carefully controlled life is about to become beautifully, terrifyingly complicated.
And despite every rational thought, the part of me that’s spent years reading about impossible men who turn out to be exactly what their heroines need is terrified to discover I might be looking forward to it.
SIX
GRAYSON
Coffee from Martha’s Diner arrives with extra foam art that looks like either a heart or a UFO crash. I’m standing outside Twin Waves at 6:45 AM, fifteen minutes before Michelle usually opens, holding proof that I’ve lost my mind and forgot how to act normal.
Watching her for years taught me she takes two sugars and a splash of vanilla creamer in her coffee. Miranda used to say I never paid attention, but she was wrong. I pay attention. I’m just terrible at timing, like a broken clock that’s been struck by lightning.
I can see Michelle through the window, already inside getting ready for the day, but the door’s still locked since she doesn’t open until seven. I knock and wait, hoping she won’t think I’ve completely lost it showing up with coffee before she’s even officially open.
Michelle appears at the door, coffee-stained apron already on, hair twisted up in what I’ve learned means she’s been stress-prepping since 5 AM. When she sees me through the glass with the Martha’s Diner cup, her expression shifts through several emotions too quickly to catalog.
She unlocks the door and steps back. “Mr. Reed. You’re early. And bearing coffee from the competition.”
“Neutral territory. We both need food to think straight.” I walk to her counter and set down the bag like I’m delivering peace papers. “Think of it as an investment in talking things out.”
She stares at the bag like I just did magic instead of ordering breakfast. “How did you know what I like?”
Oh.Oh,no. Years of watching her have led to this moment where I either sound thoughtful or like a creepy stalker with a good memory. “Lucky guess?”
She raises one eyebrow like a detective who caught me red-handed. “Blueberry muffin and scrambled eggs isn’t a lucky guess, Grayson. That’s spy-level watching. Did you... did you takenotes?”
The fact that I absolutely did take mental notes—and maybe wrote them down once—feels like information that could ruin whatever tiny bit of respect I have left. “I notice things.”
“Or you’ve been planning to tear down my coffee shop longer than you said, and you’re really good at spying.”
“Or I’ve been your customer for years and picked up a few things.”
She pulls out the muffin and takes a small bite, closing her eyes briefly like she’s savoring her first real food in days. When she opens them again, some of the wariness is gone, replaced by something that might be tolerance.
“Thank you. I haven’t had time to make coffee, which is ironic since I own a coffee shop and should probably have my life together better.”
“When’s the last time you had a real meal?”
The question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, showing exactly how closely I’ve been watching her stress levelslike some kind of health stalker. Her eyebrows shoot up, and I realize I’ve gone way past normal conversation territory.
“That’s not your business, and also weirdly specific for casual chat.”
“It is if you pass out during our meeting. Bad for my insurance.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I get the uncomfortable feeling she’s seeing straight through my business excuses to the real worry underneath, which is terrifying because I’m not ready for that level of honesty.
“I’m fine. This is perfect, actually.” She gestures to the muffin and eggs. “I was going to survive on espresso and determination until noon.”
“When did you last eat before this?”
