Page 62 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me regardless of my interest level.”
“I think you’re scared. Not of him, but of this. Of what it could mean.”
My hand stills on the counter. Sometimes Caroline’s emotional intelligence catches me off guard, especially when I’m trying to convince myself I’m being practical instead of terrified of my own shadow and possibly also commitment and the entire concept of romantic vulnerability.
“And what if I am?”
“Then you remember that being scared is different from being wrong. And that guy just offered to figure things out together. When’s the last time a man offered to be your partner instead of expecting you to carry everything alone while they steal your recipes and life savings?”
The question hits harder than it should. David never offered partnership—he offered charm and grand gestures while planning systematic theft with the precision of a professional con artist and the moral compass of a particularly ambitious shark. But Grayson’s proposal feels different. Real. He actually sees me as an equal instead of a person to be managed or manipulated.
By lunch, my phone carries three texts from Jessica asking if the rumors about me kissing Grayson are accurate, two calls from book club members wanting coffee dates “to discuss recent developments” with the urgency of national security briefings, and one message from my mother asking if I’m bringing anyone to dinner this week, which is her subtle way of asking if I’ve finally stopped being romantically hopeless and achieved basic human functionality.
Twin Waves’ gossip network rivals satellite internet for speed and reliability, except it’s far more entertaining and completely impossible to unsubscribe from.
I’m contemplating hiding in my apartment until this attention dies down (approximately never) when the bells chime with what I’m beginning to recognize as the soundtrack to my romantic doom. But instead of more gossiping townspeople, Mason Bennett rushes through the door wearing a pirate hat and dragging a stuffed parrot, followed immediately by Ellen Sanders in a mermaid tail costume that she’s somehow managed to walk in—which is honestly more impressive than most of my adult accomplishments and definitely defies several laws of physics.
“Miss Michelle!” Mason scrambles onto a stool with athletic determination. “Mom says you’re gonna marry Mr. Grayson and have a princess wedding!”
Before I can even process this announcement, both Amber and Hazel appear in the doorway, slightly out of breath and wearing the identical harried expressions of mothers who’ve been chasing costumed children through downtown Twin Waves.
“Mason Bennett, you cannot just disappear on me like that,” Amber says, though there’s more relief than scolding in her voice.
“Ellen Sanders,” Hazel adds with exasperated fondness, “what have you been telling people about wedding requirements?”
They both take in the scene and stop dead, their eyes going wide as they realize what they’ve walked into.
I nearly drop the coffee pot I’m holding. “She saidwhat?”
“I never said that!” Amber protests, but she’s grinning. “I said you looked happy when you talked about him. There’s a difference, Mason.”
“Just the important stuff, Mama,” Ellen says innocently to Hazel. “Like how grown-ups need to practice kissing so they don’t mess up during the ceremony.”
“And Ellen says if you have a princess wedding, she gets to be a mermaid flower girl,” Mason continues, completely ignoring his mother’s correction, “but I told her pirates are better than mermaids because pirates have swords and treasure, but she said mermaids can breathe underwater which is basically a superpower, so now we’re having a debate about wedding party hierarchy and maritime superiority.”
Caroline appears from the restroom, takes one look at the situation, and starts laughing so hard she has to hold onto the counter for support. “Oh my goodness, they’re planning your wedding! This is the best day of my entire life!”
“No one is planning anything!” I protest, but I’m fighting a losing battle against the combined forces of small-town romance expectations and five-year-old determination powered by pure romantic optimism.
“Miss Michelle,” Mason says seriously, “do you like Mr. Grayson?”
The question is so simple and direct that it cuts through all my adult complications. “I... yes. I like him.”
“And does he like you?”
“I think so.”
“Then you should probably kiss him again,” Ellen suggests with practical wisdom. “Kissing is how grown-ups tell each other they like each other, right?”
“It’s more complicated than that?—”
“Why?” Mason asks, and honestly, I don’t have a good answer that doesn’t involve decades of emotional baggage and trust issues that would require a graduate course in psychology to properly explain.
Before I can attempt a response that won’t traumatize two five-year-olds, Grayson walks in carrying takeout bags, and the entire situation immediately escalates from “mildlyembarrassing” to “please let the earth open and swallow me whole.”
“Mr. Grayson!” Ellen shrieks. “We’re planning your wedding to Miss Michelle!”
He stops dead in the doorway, takeout bags frozen mid-carry, and stares at the scene: two costumed children, Caroline with her phone out, both mothers trying not to laugh, and me looking like I’m considering relocating to witness protection.
