Page 33 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Worse. He was thorough about it.” Her laugh contains all the warmth of an arctic winter, and I want to wrap her in my arms until that bitter edge disappears from her voice. “Stole my business plan, my grandmother’s secret recipes, my customer database. Used everything to launch his own chain.”
The urge to find this David and introduce him to the business end of a sledgehammer surprises me with its violence. I set down my coffee cup harder than necessary, sending liquid sloshing across the permit applications I just rescued from the floor.
“Outstanding. Now I’m destroying municipal documents with the efficiency of a natural disaster.” I grab napkins, but my hands are less steady than they should be—whether from angerat her ex or awareness of how she’s watching me with those dark eyes, I can’t tell. “He stole your name too?”
“Apparently stealing my heart and my intellectual property wasn’t sufficient. He needed the complete Michelle Lawson experience, minus the inconvenient Michelle Lawson.” She traces the rim of her coffee cup with one finger, and I find myself mesmerized by the simple movement. “All the benefits, none of the messy emotional complications.”
“That’s not business competition. That’s emotional terrorism with a side of identity theft and zero creative imagination.” I hold up a permit application now resembling abstract art created during a nervous breakdown, but I’m not really seeing it. I’m seeing red at the thought of someone dismantling this woman’s dreams. “What kind of soulless bastard?—”
“The lawyers called it an ‘intellectual property dispute,’” she says, though her expression softens as she sees my outrage on her behalf. “I called it ‘the reason I now trust people about as much as gas station sushi.’”
“How did you find out?”
“I came home one night and my key didn’t work.” She says it flatly, like she’s rehearsed the story. “He’d already changed the locks. His stuff was gone, mine was boxed, and his new girlfriend was unpacking in the kitchen.”
I freeze, fury clawing tight in my chest. My hand jerks, and the napkin dispenser tips, spilling a storm of white across the coffee table.
She huffs a humorless laugh. “I lost the shop, the money, the apartment, and the relationship in one night. All because I trusted the wrong person.”
I reach for more napkins and, in my emotional turbulence, somehow manage to knock my coffee cup straight into the abyss between couch cushions. We both watch in horror as it disappears into furniture purgatory.
“Oh no,” Michelle breathes, already diving for napkins. “That’s going to stain everything in a five-foot radius.”
She crouches beside me, trying to wedge napkins into the cushions while I wrestle with the frame. Our fingers brush in the scramble, sending an inconvenient jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with caffeine.
“Don’t give me those sympathetic contractor eyes,” she mutters, though her voice softens as she presses napkins into the crevice. “I survived, didn’t I? Learned valuable lessons about reading contracts and never letting anyone else handle my business registrations.”
“Such as?” I grunt, prying the cup free at last. I emerge victorious but ridiculous, the coffee cup in one hand and half the sofa’s stuffing clinging to my shirt like evidence of my unraveling.
Michelle straightens, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read—amusement flickering over something deeper.
“Never trust a man who insists on ‘organizing’ your important documents,” she says, her voice dipping into that register that unravels my concentration. “And if someone suggests matching aprons on the third date, that’s not romance—it’s reconnaissance for future identity theft.”
Despite the horror she’s describing, a smile tugs at me while I pluck polyester fuzz from my sleeve. There’s something about her resilience, the way she laces humor through betrayal, that makes me want to protect her and laugh with her in equal measure.
“Matching aprons on the third date should be a red flag visible from orbit,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
“Exactly.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief, transforming her face. “Anyone that eager to coordinate wardrobes is plotting world domination—or at least coffee shop domination with a side of grand larceny.”
“How long did you fight him in court?”
“Two years and most of my savings. But I won in the end—sort of. He got to keep his stolen empire, and I got to keep my dignity and a court order preventing him from using my grandmother’s cinnamon roll recipe.”
“The cinnamon roll recipe represents the real victory.”
“Absolutely. That recipe is family gold. My grandmother would have haunted me from beyond if I’d let David profit from her secret ingredient.”
“Which is?” I lean forward with genuine curiosity, momentarily forgetting this furniture’s proven unreliability. The chair tilts at an alarming angle, and I have to grip the armrests to avoid tumbling onto the floor—but the precarious position brings me closer to Michelle, close enough to see her pupils dilate.
Michelle gives me a look that could melt steel and probably several other industrial materials. Her eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter and my mouth go dry, and when she speaks, her voice drops to a whisper that feels like silk dragged across bare skin.
“Nice try, Reed. That information is classified at the highest levels of national security.” She leans forward slightly, closing the distance between us by another dangerous inch. “I’d have to eliminate you if I revealed it.”
The way she says ‘eliminate’ makes my heart stop. There’s something predatory in her smile, something that suggests she’s playing a game I don’t fully understand but desperately want to learn. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
“Fair enough. I’m not prepared to die for pastry secrets,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “Though at this rate, your furniture might eliminate me first.”
“Smart choice.” Her smile turns wicked, and I realize she knows exactly what effect she’s having on me. “Those cinnamon rolls have been known to start territorial disputes between neighboring coffee shops and cause grown adults to weep with joy.”
