Page 83 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Good thing I look terrible in cream sauce, then.”
“Michelle.” His hand finds mine under the table, fingers intertwining with devastating precision. “You could be covered in mud and wearing a paper sack, and you’d still be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
The fierce sincerity in his voice steals my breath completely. The way he’s looking at me—like I’m precious and desired and worth protecting from flying seafood—makes something deep in my chest unfurl with dangerous warmth.
“So,” Brett says, clearly trying to give us a moment to recover, “tell us more about these grant applications. Because if we’re going to save Jessica’s bookstore and create Michelle’s dream coffee shop, we’re going to need a solid plan.”
As Grayson launches into detailed explanations of funding timelines and application processes, his hand never leaves mine, his shirt still warm around my shoulders like a promise. The conversation flows around historic tax credits and community development grants, but I’m acutely aware of every small touch, every heated glance, every moment when his attention returns to me like a magnet finding true north.
“The key is demonstrating community partnership,” he’s saying, thumb tracing small circles on my palm that make concentration nearly impossible. “Historic preservation works best when it serves current needs while honoring the past.”
“Like what you two are building together,” Amber observes with barely contained excitement. “Professional collaboration that’s clearly becoming something more.”
“Amber,” I warn, though my voice lacks conviction because she’s not wrong.
“I’m just saying, watching you two navigate business and romance is like watching a masterclass in sexual tension.” She grins at Brett. “Remember when we were pretending we were just business partners?”
“We were never just business partners,” Brett says firmly, pulling her closer with possessive certainty. “We were two people falling in love who happened to run a restaurant together.”
The parallel makes my breath catch, especially when Grayson’s fingers tighten around mine.
“Is that what we are?” I ask quietly, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Grayson turns to face me fully, brown eyes dark with something that makes my pulse skip. “I don’t know about you,” he says, voice low and rough with honesty, “but I stopped pretending this was just business the moment you let me into your apartment. The moment you trusted me enough to share your dreams over embroidered dogs.”
The raw vulnerability in his admission makes my throat tight. “Grayson?—”
“I’m falling in love with you, Michelle Lawson,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “With your passion for this town, your terrific coffee, the way you organize sticky notes by color. With the woman who fights for what she believes in and lets me be part of the fight.”
The confession hangs between us like a challenge, weighted with possibility and the terrifying promise of everything I’ve been too scared to want since David.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, because honesty seems to be the theme of the evening.
“Good,” he says, his smile soft but eyes intense. “Because what we’re building together is worth being scared over.”
Before I can respond, the server returns with my replacement dinner and more apologies, but the moment feels suspended in amber—Grayson’s declaration, the weight of his shirt around my shoulders, the way the sunset paints everything in shades of possibility.
“So,” Amber says when we’ve all been served and the immediate crisis has passed, “are we calling this your first official double date?”
I look around the table—at Brett and Amber radiant with the confidence of love that knows itself, at Grayson watching me with patient heat that suggests he’s willing to wait for me to catch up to where my heart is already running.
“I think,” I say slowly, testing the words like a prayer, “we can call it whatever we want.”
Grayson’s smile in response is soft and devastating and full of promises about the future we’re brave enough to build together.
Even if it occasionally involves flying seafood and borrowed shirts that smell like home.
EIGHTEEN
GRAYSON
The call comes at night, hours after I drop Michelle off with a kiss that tastes like promises and forever. I’m lying in bed replaying the way she looked in my shirt, the way she laughed during dessert, the way she said yes to being my girlfriend.
“Grayson? It’s Scott. We have a problem.”
I sit up, instantly alert. “What kind of problem?”
“The kind that involves your girlfriend’s ex-fiancé calling me twenty minutes ago, asking detailed questions about our Twin Waves project and specifically about Michelle Lawson’s involvement in our community outreach.”
