Page 69 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
I shoot her a look that could melt steel, but she just grins with satisfaction.
Grayson approaches the espresso machine with careful attention. His hands move over the controls with competent familiarity, and I try very hard not to notice how those same hands felt against mine yesterday.
“When did you last descale it?” he asks, crouching down to examine the base.
“Last month. I follow the maintenance schedule religiously.”
“Water filter?”
“Changed two weeks ago.”
He opens the back panel and peers inside with professional focus. “Ah. There’s your problem. The pressure valve’s stuck, and the temperature sensor’s giving inconsistent readings. Probably needs a good cleaning and some recalibration.”
“Is that expensive to fix?” I ask, though part of me is wondering if I deliberately sabotaged my own machine just to have an excuse to text him.
“Not expensive. Just finicky.” He glances up at me from his crouch, and the look on his face is soft in a way that makes my pulse do that flutter-skip thing. “I can fix it tonight, if you want. Won’t take long.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His voice is quiet, but it carries weight. “Let me help.”
Caroline makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like “aww” before disguising it as a cough.
“That would be great,” I manage. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He turns back to the machine, rolling up his sleeves further. “Caroline, could you grab me a screwdriver from behind the counter? Small Phillips head should be in the tool drawer.”
“Oh, so now we’re a team?” Caroline asks, but she’s already moving toward the counter. “Michelle keeps tools in the same place she keeps her emotional defenses—locked away and only brought out for emergencies.”
“Caroline,” I warn.
“What? It’s true. You’ve got more emotional armor than a medieval knight, but one weekend with tall, dark, and brooding here, and you’re sending emergency repair texts and sniffing his jacket like a lovesick?—”
“Tool drawer,” I interrupt loudly. “Focus on the tool drawer.”
Grayson’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as he works. “Don’t mind me,” he says without turning around. “I’m just here for the mechanical crisis. The emotional commentary is purely bonus entertainment.”
“Glad we could provide quality Saturday night entertainment,” I mutter.
“Best entertainment I’ve had in years,” he says, and something in his voice makes me look at him more closely. He’s smiling as he works, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before. “Beats riding around the island thinking too hard about things I can’t control.”
Caroline returns with the screwdriver, studying both of us. “You know, for two people who are supposed to be professional enemies, you have excellent domestic chemistry.”
“We’re not domestic,” I protest.
“Right. Which is why he’s fixing your kitchen equipment on a Saturday night, and you’re watching him work like he’s performing surgery instead of basic appliance maintenance.”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting she’s completely right, Grayson makes a satisfied noise and something clicks inside the espresso machine. The dying walrus sounds stop, replaced by the familiar gentle hum of properly functioning equipment.
“Try it now,” he says, standing up and brushing dust off his hands.
I move to the machine, hyperaware of how he steps back to give me space but doesn’t move far. Our arms brush as I reach for the controls, and electricity shoots up my spine.
The machine responds perfectly—smooth extraction, proper pressure, steam wand working like new. The coffee that emerges is exactly the rich, complex blend I’ve been testing out for weeks.
“It’s perfect,” I breathe. “How did you?—?”
“Practice. I’ve fixed a lot of temperamental machines over the years.” He watches me work with an expression I can’t quite read. “Plus, your maintenance logs are incredibly detailed. Made the diagnosis easy.”
