Page 42 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Outside, distant waves crash against the shore and the occasional seagull cries. Through the corner windows, people stroll past on the boardwalk, the palmetto tree swaying in the breeze. The sounds of Twin Waves continuing its daily rhythm while my world tilts completely sideways into romantic chaos.
In a few hours, Grayson will present his development plans to the town council. In a few hours, I’ll present community opposition to those same plans.
But first, I have to survive a book club meeting where my closest friends analyze my love life like it’s the monthly book selection and possibly more entertaining.
Tonight, we’ll be professional opponents presenting competing visions for Twin Waves’ future.
I just hope we can figure out how to fight for each other instead of against each other.
Because after this morning’s tie incident of epic proportions, I’m pretty sure I’m developing feelings for the enemy.
And judging by those pictures, the feeling might be devastatingly mutual.
I step outside onto the deck one more time, breathing in the salt air and watching the waves crash. The ocean stretches endlessly before me, and for the first time, instead of feeling trapped between the sea and Grayson’s development plans, I feellike maybe—just maybe—there’s room for both my dreams and whatever this thing is growing between us.
The pumpkins and mums by the tables seem to glow in the afternoon light, and I can’t help but think that even in autumn, even when things are changing, there’s still beauty to be found.
Even when your whole world is about to change because of a crooked tie and a man with gold-flecked mahogany eyes.
TEN
GRAYSON
“Cock-a-doodle-doooo!”
I jolt awake to find Reggie perched on my nightstand like a feathered alarm clock from the bad place, delivering his morning proclamation at five-thirty in the morning. But this isn’t his usual dawn patrol—this is personal. His beady eyes hold smug judgment.
“Seriously, Reg?” I mumble, but he just ruffles his feathers.
Because yes, I was dreaming about Michelle. Again. Dream-Michelle was fixing my tie while explaining municipal zoning ordinances in that patient voice she reserves for particularly dense customers, and somehow even bureaucratic building codes sounded riveting when she was saying them.
Real-Michelle fixed my tie yesterday. Real-Michelle stepped so close I could count the freckles across her nose. Real-Michelle bit her lip like she was defusing a bomb instead of just untangling basic menswear.
I was married to Miranda for three years, and I’d forgotten that a simple touch could feel more intimate than anything we ever shared. Miranda always said I was emotionally unavailable.Maybe she was right—maybe I just needed someone worth being available for.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The actual alarm clock joins Reggie’s morning torture session, and I swear my rooster looks pleased with the stereo assault on my sanity.
“Get it together, Reed.” I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. The guy staring back looks like he got hit by a truck loaded with confused feelings and small-town politics.
My phone buzzes with a text from Scott:Committee meeting tonight. Try not to stare at her like a lovesick teenager.
Right. The meeting where Michelle and I will spend three hours in the same room, pretending yesterday’s tie incident didn’t change everything between us. Professional collaboration with the woman who’s been taking over way too much of my headspace.
I shower, shave, and pick a shirt that hopefully won’t need emergency fashion help. Twenty minutes later, I’m checking my tie in the hallway mirror like I’m preparing to deliver a dissertation.
Perfectly straight. Professional. Zero Michelle assistance required.
The irony tastes bitter.
Twin Waves Brewing Co. sits on the same corner it always has, but walking through the door triggers muscle memory that has nothing to do with needing caffeine. Michelle’s behind the counter, hair twisted into a messy bun that makes my fingers itch to pull it free, wearing a burgundy long-sleeved t-shirt that hugs her curves in ways that should be illegal during business hours.
She glances up when I enter, and her professional smile falters for exactly two seconds—long enough for me to see heat flash in her eyes before she wrestles it back into perfect customer service mode.
“Morning,” I approach the counter, hoping I look like a normal human being instead of a man whose dreams are filled with the taste of her mouth.
“Morning.” She reaches for the espresso cups, and I catch the slight tremor in her hands. Good. I’m not the only one affected by whatever this is. “The usual?”
