Page 60 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“This changes everything,” I inform my reflection, which looks suspiciously pleased about this turn of events. “Stop looking so smug. You’re literally me.”
The short walk downstairs to Twin Waves feels different this morning. Even the familiar creak of the steps from my apartment above seems to hum with possibility. The sound of waves crashing against the pier drifts through my windows, and this morning the ocean’s rhythm carries promise insteadof just routine. Even the seagulls’ usual demanding cries sound celebratory, though knowing seagulls, they’re probably just plotting more efficient ways to steal tourists’ sandwiches.
I flip on the lights, going through my usual opening routine while my brain conducts a thorough review of last night’s developments. Normal tasks—grinding beans, checking supplies, arranging pastries—refuse to feel normal when apparently one kiss from Grayson Reed has reset my entire nervous system to “lovesick teenager” mode.
The bells chime, and Mrs. Foster shuffles in wearing her usual sweater that’s achieved historical monument status through sheer age.
“Well now, sugar, you’re positively glowing this morning.”
“New light bulbs,” I mumble, focusing intently on her usual dark roast with cream. “Energy efficient.”
“Hmm.” She drops change in the tip jar. “These energy-efficient bulbs got a name, do they?”
Before I can come up with a response that doesn’t make me sound guilty of something, Caroline bursts through the door radiating the kind of perky energy that makes morning people unbearable and should probably be regulated by the government.
She takes one look at my face and squeals loud enough to alert the Coast Guard. “You kissed him! Oh my goodness, you totally kissed the developer!”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, glancing around the mercifully empty shop. “And I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me.”
“Whatever, same difference,” Caroline says with that dramatic eye roll she’s perfected, her black nail polish catching the light as she gestures. “But seriously, I need details or I’m going to spiral into an existential crisis. Was it earth-shattering? Did your soul leave your body? Because Michelle, I’ve been watching you armor yourself in coffee shop professionalism forliteral years, and honestly? It’s been depressing. I need to know that true passion still exists in this crazy world we call dating, because my own romantic life is basically a graveyard of ghosted conversations and guys who think sending unsolicited mirror selfies counts as emotional intimacy.”
“I’m not giving details. I’m a grown woman who maintains professional boundaries and?—”
“Who just turned the color of our strawberry cream cheese Danish and is gripping that coffee cup hard enough to crush diamonds.”
Caroline grins. “Honestly, this is the first sign of actual passion in this town since... well, probably ever. Most people here are too busy pretending their marriages aren’t slowly dying of boredom to have real romance. At least the lighthouse keeper thing was tragic and poetic. Dude waited forty years to propose and then she said no because she was already secretly married to a fisherman. Now that’s the kind of beautiful disaster I can respect.”
“We’re not exactly star-crossed lovers,” I protest weakly. “We’re just... complicated.”
“Complicated?” Caroline’s eyebrow arches with devastating precision. “Michelle, you literally called him ‘that development-happy corporate shark with the emotional range of a tax document’ last week. And now you’re blushing like a teenager who just got asked to prom by the captain of the football team.”
“That was before—” I stop myself, but Caroline’s already wearing her triumphant expression, the one that suggests she’s solved advanced calculus while simultaneously planning my wedding and possibly achieving world peace.
“Before what? Before you realized he’s actually a decent guy who brings you food when you’re too busy protesting to eat?”
The bells chime again, rescuing me from having to answer. But my rescue turns into disaster because Grayson walks in,and my heart immediately begins performing what can only be described as competitive figure skating with a side of professional gymnastics and possibly some interpretive dance thrown in for good measure.
He looks ridiculously good for a guy who probably slept as little as I did. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that navy button-down that makes his eyes look like storm clouds over the Atlantic, which is completely unfair to my mental stability and probably violates several international laws about biological warfare.
When our gazes meet, electricity passes between us with enough voltage to power the lighthouse and possibly launch a small spacecraft to Mars.
“Morning,” he says, and his voice carries more roughness than usual, like he swallowed gravel specifically to destroy my composure.
“Good morning.” Mine comes out about three octaves higher than normal, making me sound like I’ve been inhaling helium for fun.
Caroline makes a noise that might be suppressed laughter or distress signals. Possibly both. She’s versatile that way.
We stand there staring at each other while the espresso machine provides background music and my common sense takes an extended vacation to somewhere tropical and commitment-free.
“The usual?” I finally manage.
“Actually, I was hoping we could talk. About last night. About what happens next.”
Caroline develops intense interest in her Stats textbook, but her ears practically twitch with eavesdropping effort. The girl has all the subtlety of a marching band having an emotional breakdown.
Grayson steps closer to the counter. Close enough that I catch the scent of his soap—cedar and sandalwood that makes me want to lean in and breathe deeper, which would be creepy and possibly grounds for a restraining order.
“Michelle.” My name on his lips sounds different now. Intimate. Like he’s discovered some secret pronunciation that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my nervous system.
