Page 54 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Officially,” I repeat, and somehow we’ve moved even closer together without either of us making a conscious decision to do so.
The space between us electrifies, charged with months of tension and argument and the slow-burning realization that we’ve been fighting the wrong battle entirely. His presence fillsmy senses—the low timber of his voice, the way his eyes darken as they study my face, the almost imperceptible way he leans toward me as if drawn by some invisible force.
His hand comes up to touch my cheek, fingers barely grazing my skin, and I lean into the contact without thinking. My eyes flutter closed at the gentle pressure, at the callused warmth of his fingertips against my cheek.
“What are we doing?” I ask, opening my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“I have no idea,” he admits, his voice rough with an emotion I’m afraid to name. “But I’ve been thinking about you every time I drive past your shop. Every morning when I don’t stop for coffee because I’m afraid of what it means that I want to see you that badly. And especially every time we’re in the same room pretending to argue about permits when all I can think about is...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but his thumb traces a gentle path across my cheekbone, and I don’t need him to. The unspoken words hang in the air between us, heavy with promise and possibility.
“Grayson—” I start, but my voice comes out breathless and wanting.
“I know this changes everything. I know it makes both our lives infinitely more complicated. But Michelle, I can’t keep pretending that I don’t?—”
My phone erupts with my mother’s ringtone—”Sweet Caroline”—causing us to spring apart as if we’ve been electrocuted.
The spell breaks completely, leaving us staring at each other across the suddenly vast space of my car’s interior, both breathing hard as if we’ve just run a marathon.
“I should...” I gesture helplessly at the phone, which continues to belt out Neil Diamond with cheerful persistence.
“Yeah. You should.”
I answer on the fourth ring, attempting to compose myself while my mother launches into detailed explanations of some emergency involving my father, the neighbor’s cat, and what sounds like a significant quantity of Christmas decorations that have apparently achieved consciousness and declared war on suburban tranquility.
By the time I hang up, Grayson has exited the truck, walked over to the outdoor seating area, and is gazing out at the sea. As I approach, he stands and walks toward me, tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides.
“Everything all right?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“Family emergency. Dad declared war on the neighbor’s cat, and Mom needs diplomatic intervention.” I fumble with my keys, hyperaware of how close he’s standing, of the way the streetlight catches the gold in his hair. “Nothing life-threatening, just small-town family dynamics and seasonal decoration warfare.”
“Sounds about right for this time of year. Christmas decorations bring out strong emotions in people.”
We stand there for a moment, neither quite sure how to navigate this new territory we’ve stumbled into. The almost-kiss stretches between us like an unanswered question.
“About earlier—” I start.
“We should talk,” he says at the same time.
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” He nods, then steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “But Michelle? Tonight... what happened with Jessica, working together to help someone who needed it... that felt right.”
“It did,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Whatever this is between us, whatever we decide to do about it, I want you to know that.” His hand comes up as if he’s going to touch my face again, then drops back to his side. “And I want you to know that I don’t think wanting to help your community and finding creative solutions have to be opposite things.”
He turns to leave, then stops and looks back at me. “Good night, Michelle.”
“Good night.”
I watch him drive away, then lean against my coffee shop door and attempt to process what just happened. Three hours ago, we were professional adversaries working on city paperwork. Now we’re... what exactly? My lips still tingle from the almost-kiss, and my cheek burns where his fingers touched my skin.
Inside, I flip on the lights and survey the evidence of our evening: permit applications scattered across customer tables, two empty coffee cups, coffee stains on my jeans, and the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with my shop’s signature autumn blend.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jessica.
Jessica: So... want to explain why the enemy just spent his evening rescuing romance novels?
