Page 3 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Yes,” he says, voice clipped. “That’s my company.”
Silence stretches, broken only by Caroline’s sharp breath.
“What’s Reed Development Corporation?” she asks.
“The company demolishing my coffee shop,” I say. “Sixty days to vacate.”
“What?” Caroline’s voice launches high enough to make nearby customers swivel in their seats. “They want to tear down the coffee shop? Are they nuts? This place is civilization’s beating heart.”
“Our civilization needs upgrading, apparently,” I mutter, bitterness roughening my voice. The sugar grit on my skin feels like sandpaper, cinnamon burns the back of my throat, and the heat of espresso still prickles across my chest. My anger simmers hot beneath it all, sticky and suffocating, like I’ve been wrapped in frustration and dessert toppings.
Caroline turns to Grayson, her expression twisting into horrified disbelief. “Mr. Reed, please tell me you’re not tearing this place down.”
“The development project—” he begins in a maddeningly calm tone.
“Is going to destroy Michelle’s coffee shop,” Caroline interrupts, voice rising to seismic levels.
We stare across the counter that’s served as our relationship boundary—customer and business owner sharing coffee orders and weather small talk but never anything deeper. Now I understand why that distance felt comfortable. It was built on a foundation I never questioned because I was too busy admiring his forearms.
“I didn’t realize you owned this place,” he says quietly, making Caroline exhale loudly.
“Mr. Reed,” she says, “she’s behind the counter every day when you arrive. There are photos of her hanging Christmas ornaments right over there. There’s a framed newspaper article about her opening the shop behind your head with her picture. How could you possibly not know?”
He runs a hand through his hair, making it more disheveled and distractingly attractive, which feels offensive considering the circumstances. “My contract’s with the property owner, not tenants. I don’t study who makes lattes.”
“Right. Then why is your order so routine I start making it when your truck hits the parking lot?” I say. “And you’ve complimented my seasonal decorations every autumn.”
His jaw tightens—the first visible crack in his professional armor. “Michelle?—”
“Tell me you’re not actually tearing down Michelle’s coffee shop,” Caroline interrupts.
“The project is already in motion,” he says in a calm voice. “Paperwork filed, permits approved, contracts signed. I’m not cancelling because it’s inconvenient.”
Inconvenient.
The word hits like a sledgehammer. I’ve built a place where community happens, and to him, it’s just inconvenient.
“Mr. Reed, this is my entire life.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” he says.
“Actually, it’s simple,” Caroline says. “You want to tear down her shop. She doesn’t want her shop torn down. Here’s a revolutionary concept. Maybe don’t demolish historic buildings.”
Silence stretches, filled with the buzz of conversation as customers sense entertainment better than cable television.
Mrs. Hensley is watching us like we’re acting out a courtroom drama.
“I should go,” Grayson says, reaching for his wallet.
“Yes,” I agree with more venom than I should display publicly. “You should.”
He places exact change—no tip this time, apparently demolishing livelihoods affects gratuity—then turns toward the door as though fleeing a crime scene.
At the threshold, he pauses, shoulders tense. “For what it’s worth,” he mutters, “I’m sorry.”
The door closes before I can respond, leaving me sugar-covered, espresso-stained, and hollow in the chest. My hands shake as I grab for napkins, the grit of sugar biting against my skin. Cinnamon still burns in my nose, and underneath it all, anger flares hot enough to mask the embarrassment.
Caroline stares after Grayson, her eyes wide, then narrowing with fury. “Unbelievable. He waltzes in here in a suit, ruins your morning,andtells you he’s tearing this place down? Who does that?”
