Page 66 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Michelle: Only if your intentions aren’t serious.
The directness stops me cold. Michelle doesn’t dance around difficult topics or hint at what she means. She asks direct questions and expects honest answers.
Me: My intentions are serious.
Michelle: How serious?
I stare at the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How do I quantify the way she’s rewired my entire nervous system? How do I explain that three days ago, I thought I understood attraction, and now I realize I’d never experienced it before?
Me: Foundation-level serious.
Michelle: You just used a construction metaphor about your feelings.
Me: It’s accurate.
Michelle: It’s adorable. See you tomorrow.
Adorable. She finds my emotional incompetence adorable instead of exhausting. Miranda used to sigh whenever I tried to explain feelings using technical terminology. Michelle teases me about it.
The difference matters more than it should.
Back home, I pour myself a glass of the wine Jessica didn’t select—a bottle I’ve owned for two years without opening—and try to process the day’s revelations. My phone sits on the kitchen counter, silent but somehow electric with the memory of Michelle’s texts.
Three days since everything shifted, and I still can’t predict what happens next. Michelle kissed me in her coffee shop, surrounded by the scent of fresh grounds and the warm glow of afternoon light filtering through windows. She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and now we’re navigating territory neither of us mapped out.
The wine tastes expensive and unfamiliar. I should be reviewing tomorrow’s schedule, confirming contractor meetings and double-checking permit applications. Instead, I’m sitting in my kitchen, replaying text messages and trying to figure out when Michelle Lawson became the most important part of every day.
My phone buzzes.
Michelle: Jessica texted. Apparently you were “surprisingly helpful” with wine selection. She’s impressed.
Me: I aim to exceed expectations.
Michelle: You succeed more often than you realize.
The conversation dies there, but my phone feels warm in my hand, charged with possibilities I’m not quite ready to name. Tomorrow I’ll see her at the coffee shop, probably serving customers with that genuine smile that makes my chest tight. I’ll order my usual double espresso, try not to stare at her mouth,and pretend I’m not completely obsessed with a woman who should be my professional opponent.
Three days since Michelle kissed me, and I’m still discovering the ways she’s changed everything I thought I knew about wanting someone.
This is going to be a problem.
By the time I reach Sanders’ Hardware, the sun’s hanging low and my head’s no clearer than when I started. The bell chimes as I push through the door, and Jack Sanders looks up from the power tool aisle with a knowing grin. He’s got a measuring tape in one hand and what looks like miniature hinges scattered across the counter.
“Grayson Reed, as I live and breathe. You look like a man who’s been thinking too hard about something that can’t be fixed with tools.”
“Need a new socket wrench set.” I browse the tool display, avoiding Jack’s too-perceptive gaze. “The old one’s stripped.”
“Uh-huh. And this has nothing to do with a certain coffee shop owner who’s got the whole town talking?” He holds up a tiny hinge, examining it in the light. “I’m building Ellen a mermaid dollhouse. I’m trying to figure out how to make miniature cabinet doors that actually open and close. Five-year-olds have very specific engineering requirements.”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting my complete emotional upheaval, the bell chimes again. Brett Collins walks in, looking equally restless.
“Jack. Grayson.” Brett nods, heading straight for the fastener display. “You wouldn’t happen to know where they keep three-inch wood screws? Amber’s got me building custom shelving forthe restaurant, and I’m discovering I underestimated the project scope.”
“Aisle three,” Jack says, setting down the miniature hinge. “Though I’m sensing this isn’t really about hardware for any of us.”
Brett and I exchange glances. There’s something distinctly uncomfortable about being psychoanalyzed by two men who’ve clearly figured out the whole relationship thing.
“Speak for yourself,” Brett mutters, but he’s not browsing screws anymore.
