Page 68 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Heaven help him,” Mr. Sanders mutters, but there’s amusement in his voice. “Feelings are expensive. Usually require tools you don’t actually need and projects that take three times longer than necessary.”
As we walk outside, Brett turns to me. “You know what changed everything for me? I stopped trying to earn my place in Amber’s life and just started showing up as myself. Turns out that was enough.”
Jack nods, jingling the miniature hinges in his pocket. “Same here. The day I stopped trying to be impressive and started being honest was the day everything clicked into place.”
I look at my phone, Michelle’s message glowing on the screen. Espresso machine emergency on a Saturday evening. She could call any repair service in town.
She called me.
“Yeah,” I say, swinging my leg over the Harley. “I’m going.”
“Good luck,” Brett calls out.
“You won’t need it,” Jack adds with the confidence of a man who knows how this story ends. “Just be yourself. It’s worked out pretty well for the rest of us.”
The bike roars to life, and I head back toward town, toward Michelle, toward whatever comes next. The salt air no longer carries the phantom scent of coffee—it carries possibility.
This is still going to be a problem.
But maybe it’s the kind of problem worth having.
FIFTEEN
MICHELLE
Saturday evening, and I’m standing in my coffee shop holding Grayson’s jacket like some kind of love-struck teenager. The espresso machine is making sounds that suggest it’s plotting my professional demise, but all I can focus on is the way his cologne clings to the fabric.
Cedar and sawdust. I lift the jacket to my face before I can stop myself—just for a second—and breathe in the memory of standing too close to him, of his hands steady on mine.
“This is pathetic,” I mutter to the empty shop. “You’re a grown woman sniffing a man’s jacket like some kind of?—”
The door chimes.
I freeze, jacket pressed against my face like evidence of my complete emotional breakdown, and turn to find Grayson Reed standing in my doorway. His hair is windblown, I’m assuming from the motorcycle parked behind him and the helmet he’s carrying. His flannel shirt is rolled up to reveal forearms that have no business being that distracting, and he’s looking at me with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and something deeper.
“Um,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “Hi. I’m here to fix the espresso machine?”
Heat floods my face as I realize what he just witnessed. Me. Sniffing his jacket. Like a creepy person who has never interacted with attractive men before.
“I was just—the fabric softener—quality control for the—” I wave the jacket around as if that explains anything, then quickly hang it on the hook behind the counter. “The espresso machine. Yes. Emergency. Mechanical crisis of epic proportions.”
Caroline chooses this moment to emerge from the back room. She’s been helping out at the shop from time to time. She takes one look at the scene—me red-faced and flustered, Grayson trying not to laugh, the jacket swaying incriminatingly on its hook—and delivers the kind of perfectly timed deadpan observation that makes me question her future in stand-up comedy:
“Well, this is awkward. Should I come back when you two are done having whatever emotional crisis this is? Because I can grab more napkins from the supply closet and pretend I didn’t witness Michelle having intimate moments with menswear.”
“Caroline,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What? I’m just saying, if you’re going to sniff his clothes, maybe wait until he’s not standing right there watching you do it.” She shrugs, completely unbothered by my mortification. “Amateur move, really.”
Grayson clears his throat, and when I dare to look at him, his eyes are crinkled with barely contained laughter. “Should I be flattered or concerned about my jacket’s apparent appeal?”
“Neither,” I say quickly. “It was purely professional. Quality assessment of local laundry services. Very thorough research.”
“Right. Research.” He steps fully into the coffee shop, and suddenly the space feels smaller. “And the espresso machine emergency?”
“Oh, that.” I gesture toward the machine, which chooses this moment to emit a sound like a dying walrus. “It’s been makingconcerning noises all day. Steam coming from places steam shouldn’t be coming from. General mechanical rebellion.”
Caroline snorts. “It started making weird noises about five minutes after you sent that text. Funny how that timing worked out.”
