Page 4 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Mrs. Hensley snaps her notebook shut like a gavel. “Arrogant, that’s what. Men who think money means they can take whatever they want.”
I brush cinnamon from my eyebrows, throat tight. “Exactly. He’s not some romantic hero. He’s the villain in this story.”
Caroline crosses her arms, her glare fierce enough to scorch. “Then he just declared war on civilization itself. Because this coffee shopiscivilization’s beating heart.”
Mrs. Hensley nods sharply, lips pressed thin. “He picked the wrong community to bulldoze. We don’t roll over for out-of-town developers.”
Their anger thrums through the room, mingling with mine, fortifying me. I stand straighter, the mess around me less humiliating now and more like battle scars.
“Fine,” I mutter, shaking sugar from my sleeves with what remains of my dignity. “Game on, Mr. Reed.”
Caroline’s eyes spark with approval. Mrs. Hensley folds her arms with regal finality. And just like that, the shop feels less like a stage for disaster and more like the front lines of a fight I’m not planning to lose.
The caffeine wars have officially begun.
TWO
GRAYSON
My phone buzzes with a text from Amanda, but I can’t stop staring at the demolition paperwork that’s about to end everything with Michelle.
The marble countertop feels cold against my forearms as I lean over my phone. Everything in this house feels cold lately—polished concrete floors, steel appliances, floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the view of the Intracoastal but never quite let in enough warmth. It’s the kind of place that looks stunning in architectural magazines and feels like a morgue when you actually live in it.
Amanda: How did the coffee shop owner take the news?
Perfect. My sister possesses supernatural timing for witnessing my personal disasters. She’s probably already clearing her schedule to watch this social implosion unfold.
Me: Badly.
Amanda: Define badly.
Me: She wants to murder me with a coffee pot.
Amanda: Excellent. About time someone made you work for forgiveness instead of just showing up with your tragic backstory and expecting sympathy.
Amanda’s brand of sisterly support is watching me suffer while providing colorful commentary. She’s probably already planning to sell tickets to my public humiliation and donate the proceeds to Michelle’s legal defense fund.
The smart move would be driving to the chain coffee shop on the mainland. Zero risk of encountering business owners whose dreams I’ve crushed, plus they have those prefab pastries that taste like optimism died and was preserved in high fructose corn syrup.
I glance around my pristine living space—all clean lines and neutral colors that photograph well for real estate portfolios. Miranda’s aesthetic choices still dominate: the hand-blown glass bowl by the front door, steel and glass furniture arranged for maximum visual impact, pendant lights hanging over the kitchen island like expensive jewelry. It’s technically perfect but emotionally sterile, much like my approach to community development, apparently.
Instead, I grab my keys from the glass bowl by the door—one of Miranda’s design choices. Apparently, I’m committed to making poor decisions while surrounded by expensive home décor that judges me silently.
A sound erupts from my living room. Reggie, my twenty-three pound rooster, is announcing his political opinions to the morning news.
The open-concept living space echoes with Reggie’s proclamations. He’s positioned himself on his custom perch—a designer cat tree modified for rooster proportions—with a clear view of both his territory and the flat-screen TV. His food station occupies one corner: stainless steel bowls arranged on a rubber mat, organic feed in an airtight container, and the specialized water fountain the veterinarian insisted would improve his digestion.
The litter box situation required some engineering. Three discreet stations positioned throughout the house, designed to blend with the decor.
“Not now, Reggie,” I call, grabbing my keys. He fixes me with one beady eye, like he’s calculating how much damage he could do to my shin, but I’m already heading for the door.
The drive gives me exactly enough time to contemplate how I’m about to make everything worse.
Amanda: Still talking to the rooster instead of facing your problems?
How does she possess this supernatural ability to diagnose my avoidance strategies from three states away? It’s like she has an emotional radar to detect when I’m making terrible life choices.
Me: Reggie gives excellent advice.
