Page 49 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
His eyebrows rise. “How detailed?”
“Color-coded by time of day, weather, and seasons. With separate sections for tourists versus locals.”
“Separate sections.”
“And another sheet tracking what people drink based on age. Retirees want medium roast before ten but switch to dark roast after their afternoon beach walks. Tourists ordering fancy seasonal drinks take pictures of their coffee from seventeen different angles.”
Now he’s staring at me as if I’ve confessed to conducting secret spy missions on unsuspecting caffeine addicts. Which isn’t entirely wrong.
“That’s...” He pauses, then a slow smile spreads across his face. My stomach performs an unauthorized flip. “Actually brilliant. Do you know how long people stay based on what they order?”
“Of course. Espresso drinkers are in and out in eight minutes. Latte people hang around for twenty-three minutes, thirty-seven if they’re reading.”
Grayson leans back, and his professional mask slips completely. He’s looking at me as if I’ve solved the world’s greatest mystery instead of admitting to obsessive people-watching.
“Michelle,” he says slowly, “you’ve basically done a complete traffic study without realizing it.”
“I’ve done a survival study. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? This could prove we need fewer parking spaces based on how people actually use your shop instead of some made-up formula.”
Excitement transforms his controlled expression, and my chest tightens with dangerous hope. “You think this could help?”
“I think this could change everything.” His hand reaches across the table, covering mine before either of us realizes the movement. “This is exactly what we need to show you’re part of the community, not a problem for it.”
The contact sends electricity shooting through my nervous system. His hand is warm and slightly rough from construction work, and for a moment I forget how to form coherent thoughts about city planning or anything requiring brain function.
We both freeze.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back as if I’ve burned him. “I got excited about the numbers.”
“Right. The numbers.” I flex my fingers, which still tingle. “Very exciting numbers.”
We sit in the aftermath of that brief contact, both pretending it didn’t shift everything between us, while Miles Davis plays and my coffee shop shrinks around us.
“The historical district rules have more wiggle room than I expected,” he says, sliding a document toward me with careful precision, avoiding any chance of contact.
I reach for the papers. Our fingers brush in an ordinary document exchange. Instead, the contact jolts through my nervous system—nothing to do with static electricity, everything to do with the fact that Grayson Reed has beautiful hands and I’m losing professional composure one permit at a time.
He jerks back as if shocked. I’m not the only one affected.
“Right,” I manage, focusing determinedly on city language instead of his rolled sleeves revealing distractingly muscular forearms. “Old building rules can work with new stuff.”
He leans closer to point out specific language, and I catch his scent—cologne mixed with coffee and whatever indefinable essence makes my brain abandon all pretense of professional focus.
“Michelle?”
“Hmm?” I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same sentence while my mind wandered into completely inappropriate territory involving the way his voice sounds when he says my name.
“You look distracted.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Long day. Tuesday’s coffee crowd included a woman who spent twenty minutes explaining why my autumn spice blend lacks ‘adequate nutmeg complexity.’”
His mouth quirks into that almost-smile I’ve learned to watch for, and my heart skips. “Sounds rough.”
“She brought her entire garden club for a taste test. Apparently I’m ‘promising but needs work’ in my seasonal flavor development. Then they argued whether my decorative gourds represent autumn vibes or suggest ‘rustic confusion.’”
Now he’s actually grinning, and the transformation devastates my cardiovascular system. Grayson Reed has a lethal smile when he forgets to be professional.
