Page 40 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Jessica: Book club emergency meeting tonight. Hazel baked. Bring coffee. Also…maybe be prepared to discuss your, um, tie-related developments.
I groan. How does she already know? Caroline can’t have even made it across campus yet.
Me: There are no tie-related developments. It was basic community service.
Jessica: The pictures look… less basic. More like—capital R Romantic.
Me: I helped him not look like he dressed in the dark. That’s it.
Jessica: Mhm. Just don’t be surprised when Hazel has opinions. She always has opinions.
Her texts are softer than Caroline’s posts but somehow worse—like being roasted by a librarian who highlights all your weak spots in neat, underlined notes.
Sunlight pours through the front windows, laying golden rectangles across the worn wooden floors that just witnessed this morning’s romantic disaster in high definition. Through the glass, people stroll along the boardwalk while waves crash against the shore.
I can still feel phantom warmth where Grayson stood. The memory of his pulse under my fingers haunts my nervous system like a ghost that refuses to leave.
This is a problem of massive proportions. I’ve spent years building a life fortified against exactly this kind of romantic trouble. Emotional barriers thicker than castle walls, professional boundaries sharper than scalpels, and an ironclad rule about avoiding entanglements with men who could destroy everything I’ve worked for.
And apparently all it takes is one crooked tie to turn me into a swooning idiot who forgets how motor functions work around attractive contractors with dark eyes and inconveniently good shoulders.
The morning rush gives me blessed distraction from spiraling thoughts about social media evidence and Jessica’s emergency meetings. I lose myself in familiar espresso rhythm—the sharp hiss of the steam wand and the rich smell of fresh grounds.
I serve people who trust I’ll be here tomorrow and the day after that, no matter what Grayson Reed’s demolition timeline says and my apparent inability to maintain professional boundaries with attractive enemies.
But every door chime makes me look up, expecting Grayson with another wardrobe emergency requiring personal attention. Ridiculous, because he’s probably at town hall practicing his presentation about why my coffee shop needs demolishing for Twin Waves’ economic future.
I need fresh air and perspective. I step outside to the deck area with tables overlooking the surf. The salty breeze fills my lungs as waves crash against the shore. The palmetto tree rustles overhead, and the ocean mixes with the coffee scents from my shop.
This is what I’m fighting for. Not just the coffee shop, but this view, this place, this life I’ve built by the sea.
But when I close my eyes, all I can think about is the way Grayson looked at me like I was precious instead of his opposition.
I’ve polished the espresso machine until it shines. Miles Davis plays from my speakers—because it reminds me of Dad and keeps me centered when my world tilts sideways into romantic chaos.
The coffee shop has never been more organized, which means my anxiety level has definitely reached new heights.
“You look like you’re about to vibrate right out of your skin,” Tom observes, settling at the counter with his usual coffee order and forty years of reporter wisdom. “Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just preparing for tonight’s town council meeting.”
“Ah.” Tom nods with the wisdom of a man who’s covered local politics since before I was born. “Big night for the development discussion.”
“The presentation where Reed explains why progress requires bulldozing my life’s work, and I explain why progress can jump in the ocean.”
He nods. “I see.”
I laugh despite my stress levels reaching the atmosphere. “How do you think it’ll go?”
“Honestly? I think you’re both in for it.”
“Thanks for the encouraging pep talk, Tom. Really boosting my confidence.”
“Not as bad as you think. You’re both fighting for things you believe in, which makes compromise nearly impossible when your beliefs involve the same piece of real estate. Hard to find middle ground when both sides are defending what’s best for Twin Waves.”
“So what’s the solution?”
He shakes his head, worry clouding his eyes. “Don’t honestly know.”
