Page 71 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Partners,” he confirms, his forehead resting against mine. “In all the ways that matter.”
From the back room comes the sound of Caroline’s voice, clearly talking to herself: “About time those two figured it out. I was running out of subtle ways to point out the obvious.”
Grayson laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet shop. “Think she approves?”
“Caroline’s been shipping us since the first town meeting.”
“Smart kid.”
I look up at him, this man who was supposed to be my enemy and instead became something much more complicated and infinitely more precious. “Think we can do it? Figure it out together?”
“With the right partner,” he says, pressing another soft kiss to my lips, “I think we can figure out anything.”
And for the first time since this whole development nightmare started, I actually believe him.
SIXTEEN
GRAYSON
My phone feels heavier than usual as I stare at Michelle’s number. It’s seven in the evening, officially past the acceptable window for professional contact, which makes this call what it actually is—personal.
The bouquet of daisies sits on my passenger seat like evidence of my complete abandonment of professional boundaries. Eight dollars at the grocery store, but they might as well cost my entire construction company because calling Michelle to ask if I can bring them to her house is the kind of emotional risk I’ve spent fifteen years avoiding.
I press call before I can talk myself out of it.
“Hello?” Her voice carries slight breathlessness.
“Michelle. It’s Grayson.”
“I know. Your name came up on my phone.” There’s amusement in her voice, which is encouraging. “What’s wrong? Did the coffee shop explode? Did Mrs. Hensley stage a coup? Did the entire town decide to relocate to somewhere with better cell service?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was wondering if I could stop by. I have something for you.”
The pause that follows lasts approximately seventeen construction site emergencies’ worth of anxiety.
“You want to come to my house.”
“Your apartment. Above the coffee shop. If that’s... if you’re comfortable with that.”
“Are you bringing demolition equipment?”
“Just flowers. And possibly an apology that’s been years in the making.”
Another pause. Shorter this time, but loaded with something that makes my chest tighten.
“Okay. Come up the side stairs. The door with the ridiculous welcome mat.”
“How ridiculous are we talking?”
“You’ll see.”
She hangs up, leaving me with the distinct impression that Michelle Lawson’s definition of ridiculous might be vastly different from mine.
The welcome mat features a cartoon coffee cup with googly eyes and the phraseEspresso Yourselfin a font that suggests someone spent actual money on this deliberate act of pun-based interior decorating.
I stare at it for a full thirty seconds, trying to reconcile this evidence of Michelle’s sense of humor with seven years of professional interaction where she’s maintained the kind of polished customer service that never hints at cartoon coffee cup appreciation.
The door opens before I can knock.
