Page 55 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
I stare at the message for a long moment, then type back:It’s complicated.
Her response is immediate:The best ones always are. Coffee tomorrow? I need details.
I look around and spot Grayson’s jacket draped over the chair he vacated when Jessica called. Navy wool, expensive but not flashy, with the kind of subtle quality that suggests a person who values durability over trends.
I pick up the jacket and hold it close, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne that clings to the fabric. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what this means for the development project,for the community committee, for our carefully maintained professional opposition. Tomorrow, I’ll have to explain to Jessica why I’m developing feelings for the man whose success depends on my failure.
Tonight, I’m going to remember the way his voice went rough when he almost said he couldn’t stop thinking about me, the gentle pressure of his fingers against my cheek, and the fact that when a person I cared about needed help, he didn’t hesitate to offer it.
Jessica’s right. The best things are always complicated. And complicated doesn’t have to mean impossible.
TWELVE
GRAYSON
The coffee shop has become our battlefield, and I’m losing badly.
Michelle sits across from me, papers scattered between us like broken treaties, her jaw set in that stubborn line that means she’s dug in for war. Dark blonde strands escape her messy bun from all her earlier gesturing, and there’s fire in those brown-gold eyes that suggests she’d rather throw her coffee at me than continue this conversation.
I should be focusing on the development plans. I should be thinking about timelines and budgets. Instead, I’m wondering what it would feel like to tuck that rebellious strand of hair behind her ear.
“Your revised plans still miss the point,” she says, stabbing my blueprints with one finger. The motion draws my attention to her hands—strong, capable, with paint-stained fingertips. “You can’t just stick some fake historical front on a modern building and call it community-friendly.”
“The guidelines clearly state?—”
“I don’t care what your guidelines state!” The words explode out of her, rattling the coffee cups on the counter. Her chest risesand falls rapidly, and I force myself to look away from the way her vintage band t-shirt pulls taut across her curves.
That’s when the universe decides to test every remaining shred of my sanity.
A seagull—and I use the term generously because this thing looks like it was assembled by a person who’d only heard seagulls described secondhand—crashes through the window I’d cracked for air. He lands directly in our preservation reports with all the grace of a brick dropped from heaven.
This bird is clearly special. One googly eye twice the size of the other, three and a half tail feathers, and the kind of confidence that says he’s never met a problem he couldn’t make infinitely worse. He surveys our heated argument and apparently decides we need supervision.
“What the—Oh no!” Michelle jumps back so fast she knocks over her chair, which crashes into the counter, sending sugar packets cascading in what might be the world’s lamest parade.
The bird—Frank, according to Michelle’s horrified shriek—surveys the chaos with obvious satisfaction, then grabs my development proposal and starts methodically shredding it.
“No! Those took me three days to—” I lunge forward, which Frank interprets as an invitation to play. He starts doing what can only be described as a victory dance across my financial projections, leaving tiny claw marks exclusively on the most important numbers.
“Don’t make sudden movements!” Michelle stage-whispers, pressed against the counter. “You’ll make him worse!”
“He’s destroying my work!”
“Good! Maybe it’ll knock some sense into your stubborn head!”
Frank squawks his agreement, then demonstrates his support by relieving himself directly onto my community timeline.
Heat explodes in my chest. “This is exactly your problem, Michelle. You’re so afraid of change you’d rather watch this place fall apart than admit progress might be necessary.”
Frank takes offense to my criticism, because he launches himself at my head. I duck, he overshoots, crashes into the espresso machine, and somehow activates the steam wand.
Steam shoots everywhere with the sound of an angry dragon. Frank begins squawking like he’s auditioning for a horror movie soundtrack, and Michelle starts laughing—deep, breathless giggles that suggest her sanity has officially evacuated the premises.
“Frank!” She doubles over, gasping between laughs.“That’s not a perch!”
I’m fighting the steam machine while Frank performs an interpretive dance on top of it, completely unbothered by the scalding vapor shooting around him like tiny geysers.
“What is wrong with him?” I demand, finally shutting off the machine.
