Page 26 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Right. The coffee shop owner who makes you sound like you’ve joined a cult.”
I press my forehead to the cool glass, eyes locked on Michelle as she wipes her hands on her apron and dives into the next order with relentless brightness. I can’t deny it without lying.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I mutter. “We’ll figure this out.”
“We better. Because if we can’t make this project work, we’re looking at significant financial losses that could end our partnership.”
“I know.”
“And if you’re developing feelings for the opposition leader, we’re looking at significant personal complications that could end your sanity.”
“I know that too.” My voice drops. “And it’s terrifying.”
Scott doesn’t respond right away. The silence digs under my skin, a mirror for the frustration I feel at myself—for letting feelings cloud my usually flawless instincts.
“Do you?” he asks at last, voice softer. “Because years of partnership has taught me to recognize when you’re about to make decisions with your heart instead of your head, and your track record with that is awful.”
“My heart has better judgment than I’ve given it credit for,” I say, watching Michelle’s face light up as she explains something to Caroline. “Even if its timing is terrible.”
“Your heart got you divorced and emotionally unavailable for three years.”
“My fear of emotional availability got me divorced. My heart is apparently trying to stage a comeback—and it has excellent taste in coffee shop owners.”
Scott groans. “Just get to the office. We have investors to convince and a project to save from your sudden onset of human feelings.”
“We have a project to improve,” I counter, “and a community to serve properly instead of bulldozing into submission.”
“Same thing.”
“No.” My gaze lingers on Michelle one more moment before I finally turn away. “It’s really not.”
I drive toward the office thinking about jazz music and coffee philosophy, about the way Michelle’s face transforms when she talks about craft and how she fights for things that matter with equal parts passion and strategy that could probably topple governments.
Miranda accused me of being emotionally unavailable, but she was wrong. I’ve just been unavailable to the wrong people for the wrong reasons while building emotional walls that could withstand nuclear attacks. Michelle Lawson might be the first right person for the first right reasons I’ve encountered since my emotional landscape resembled a functioning ecosystem.
Which means I need to find a way to make this work that doesn’t require choosing between my business and my heart. Good thing I specialize in solving impossible construction problems. This just happens to be the most important project of my career and possibly my entire emotional future.
SEVEN
MICHELLE
The community center buzzes with barely contained energy. Everyone’s back—but this time, the stakes have shifted. What started as information gathering has escalated into full-scale political warfare, and every single person in this room knows it.
One week since our first showdown. Seven days of phone calls, petition signatures, and heated conversations next to grocery store produce. The battle lines aren’t just drawn anymore—they’re carved in stone.
Through the open windows, salt air carries the scent of October storms rolling in from the Atlantic. The weather matches the mood perfectly: electric, unpredictable, ready to unleash hell.
Mayor Waters looks like a man who’s aged five years in the past week. His usual diplomatic smile has been replaced by a grim expression.
“Tonight we’re voting on whether to approve the conditional use permit for Reed Development’s waterfront project,” he announces. The room goes dead silent. “We’ve heard presentations. We’ve taken community input. Now it’s time to decide.”
My stomach drops. A vote. Tonight. This isn’t another round of presentations—this is the endgame.
Grayson sits in the front row, but he’s not wearing his usual confident-developer armor. His navy suit is impeccable as always, but there’s tension in the set of his shoulders, a tightness around his dark eyes that suggests this week of community warfare has gotten under his skin.
Our gazes collide across the room, and the impact hits me like a physical blow. Heat flashes through my chest, followed immediately by panic. Because the way he’s looking at me—intense, searching, almost hungry—has nothing to do with municipal politics and everything to do with the electricity that’s been building between us since that first morning in my coffee shop.
I force myself to look away before I do something stupid like forget we’re on opposite sides of a battle that could destroy everything I’ve built.
