Page 58 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Frank squawks triumphantly from near the register, having successfully opened the granola bar through sheer destructive determination.
“So this is...”
“Terrible timing with a side of property damage,” I finish.
She laughs again, and the sound goes straight to my chest where it tangles up with feelings I’ve spent seven years avoiding. “Why do I get the feeling timing has never been our strong suit?”
“Seven years of morning coffee orders suggest you might be right.”
She shakes her head, gold flecks catching the afternoon light. “All this time, I thought you were just another customer.”
“All this time, I thought you were just making coffee.” I stroke my thumb across her cheek, marveling at how softher skin is. “Turns out we were both terrible at reading the situation.”
Frank, pleased with his granola victory, hops back onto the counter and begins eating with satisfied munching.
“Any regrets?” I ask, needing to know before this moment shatters and we both remember all the reasons why this is impossible.
“About a hundred,” she admits, but her hands tighten on my shirt. “But not the one you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?”
“That I regret kissing you.” Her voice drops to a whisper that makes my pulse spike. “I don’t. I regret that it took us this long. I regret that we’re supposed to be enemies. I regret that your business partner is going to kill you for compromising the project, and I regret that we now have a seagull witness who’s probably planning to blackmail us.”
Frank pauses mid-chew and gives us a look that confirms this is exactly his plan.
“Scott’s been predicting this disaster since I started coming to community meetings personally,” I tell her. “He’s going to take one look at me tomorrow and know exactly what happened.”
“Will that be a problem?”
The practical answer is yes. The smart answer is that I’m jeopardizing a major development for a woman who’s been fighting me for weeks. But I’m standing in a coffee shop with Michelle Lawson in my arms and a deranged seagull eating stolen snacks six feet away, and suddenly none of that seems as important as it did an hour ago.
“Ask me tomorrow,” I say. “After I figure out whether I care more about disappointing Scott or disappointing you.”
Her breath catches. “Grayson?—”
Her phone buzzes against the counter, making all three of us jump. Frank nearly chokes on his granola.
Reality crashes back in, and suddenly we’re two people who just kissed our way into a situation that makes no professional sense, plus one well-fed seagull who witnessed everything.
She glances at the screen. “Jessica. She wants to know if I’m still here.”
“Are you going to tell her what happened?”
“Which part? The kissing or Frank’s complete takeover of my snack inventory?”
Frank preens proudly.
“That depends. Are you going to tell Scott?”
“He’s going to figure it out whether I tell him or not. Scott has supernatural abilities when it comes to detecting my poor life choices.” I gesture to my destroyed tie, the chaos around us, and Frank, who’s now using my shredded papers as napkins. “Plus the evidence is pretty overwhelming.”
“Is that what this was? A poor life choice?”
I study her face—flushed cheeks, mussed hair, lips still swollen from our kiss, Frank perched nearby like a feathered guardian angel of romantic chaos—and realize that for the first time in seven years, I don’t care whether this is smart or stupid. I only care whether it’s real.
“Ask me in the morning,” I say. “After we both figure out what this means and whether Frank plans to make this a regular occurrence.”
Frank squawks what sounds suspiciously like “absolutely.”
