Page 32 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“How long were you married?” she asks, wrapping both hands around her coffee mug like she’s steadying herself for impact.
“Three years of thinking we were building something when really we were just two strangers sharing a mortgage.” I lean back in the matching armchair—a decision I immediately regret when something in the frame protests with an ominous crack that sounds suspiciously like my professional composure finally giving way.
The chair’s instability mirrors my current emotional state perfectly. Figures.
“Everything okay over there?” Michelle asks, and I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips—the kind of smile that suggests she’s enjoying watching me slowly unravel.
“Your furniture has serious abandonment issues,” I say, gingerly redistributing my weight while trying to maintain what’s left of my dignity. The chair responds with another alarming groan. “Much like its owner’s taste in men, apparently.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, loaded with an implication that makes the air between us suddenly electric. Michelle’s eyes flash to mine, surprise mixing with something that looks dangerously like intrigue—and I realize I’ve just crossed a line we’ve been dancing around for years.
“I thought being a good husband meant working harder, earning more, providing everything she could want.” My voice drops lower, more intimate than a professional conversation should allow. “Apparently it meant occasionally showing up for dinner and remembering my wife existed as more than a line item in my daily schedule.”
“Revolutionary concept,” Michelle murmurs, her voice carrying a warm edge that does bad things to my pulse. “Actually acknowledging the person you married as a living, breathing human being with needs and desires.”
The way she says ‘desires’ makes my mouth go dry.
“Who knew marriage required active participation from both parties?” I reach for my coffee—still perfect despite being brewed hours ago, because Michelle is perfect at everything she touches—and my enthusiasm sends my carefully organized papers cascading to the floor in a spectacular display of professional incompetence.
But Michelle doesn’t mock my clumsiness. Instead, she watches the papers fall with the focused attention of a woman cataloging my weaknesses, and something about her predatory stillness makes my skin burn.
“Need assistance there, Mr. Municipal Excellence?” Her voice carries a challenge that goes straight to places it shouldn’t.
“I’m fine. Completely under control.” The lie tastes like ash. “This is exactly how high-level committee meetings should proceed—with maximum chaos and minimum dignity.”
I bend to gather the scattered documents, hyper-aware of how she’s watching my every movement. When I reach for the permit applications that have slid under the coffee table, my shoulder brushes against her knee where she’s perched on the couch, and the brief contact sends heat racing through my bloodstream like wildfire.
The coffee table is lower than I calculated—story of my life lately—and I crack my head against the edge with a sound that could register seismic activity.
“Ow,” I mutter, seeing stars that have nothing to do with the head injury and everything to do with how Michelle immediately leans forward to inspect the damage.
“Are you bleeding?” Her concern is genuine, but there’s something else in her voice—something breathless that makes me wonder if she’s as affected by our proximity as I am.
Suddenly our faces are inches apart. Close enough that I can see her dark eyes are actually a warm chocolate brown with amber flecks that catch the lamplight like whiskey, close enoughto count the freckles scattered across her nose like constellation points, close enough that her breath whispers across my skin and short-circuits every rational thought in my head.
“No blood,” I manage, though my voice emerges about three octaves higher than normal and rough with something I refuse to name. “Just wounded pride and potentially permanent brain damage.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth for just a heartbeat—so brief I might have imagined it—before snapping back to my eyes with an intensity that makes my chest tight. The space between us crackles with tension so thick I could cut it with a knife.
“Good,” she whispers, and the single word carries enough heat to incinerate my remaining self-control. “Because I’d hate to explain to the mayor why his lead contractor died in my coffee shop during a committee meeting.”
The practical words wrapped around that sultry delivery make me realize she’s as aware of this dangerous current between us as I am. We’re both playing with fire, and neither of us seems inclined to step back from the flames.
“She wasn’t wrong, though,” I continue, forcing myself to focus on the conversation instead of how badly I want to close the remaining distance between us. “I did choose safety over vulnerability, work over connection. I’ve been perfecting that strategy ever since—building walls instead of relationships and running my emotional life like a construction project with deadlines and deliverables.”
“Walls make excellent companions,” Michelle says quietly, something raw flickering across her features as she settles back into her corner of the couch. “Very low maintenance. Never expect you to share feelings or remember anniversaries or acknowledge their existence during business hours.”
The carefully controlled way she delivers this observation makes me study her more carefully. There’s hurt there, thekind that comes from experience, and I think about what she’s told me before about David’s betrayal—how he dismantled everything she’d built while making her believe they were partners.
“You’re thinking about David again,” I say, not making it a question.
Her smile turns brittle around the edges. “Hard not to when the parallels are so obvious. Successful man identifies local resistance. Establishes a relationship with key opposition. Gains trust through collaborative gestures.” She takes a deliberate sip of coffee, and her throat works as she swallows. “Sound familiar?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” She sets down her mug with deliberate precision. “David said he loved me too. Right up until his lawyer served me papers claiming I’d stolen his ideas.”
The pain in her voice makes something violent twist in my chest—the same protective rage I felt the first time she told me how David had destroyed everything she’d built while she planned their wedding.
