Page 98 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Down, Roxy,” I mutter, pushing seventy pounds of enthusiastic black lab off my chest.
Roxy interprets this as an invitation to play. She bounds around the room, tail wagging, before launching herself back onto the bed with the grace of a small airplane making an emergency landing.
“This is not helping my mood,” I tell her as she settles across my legs, cutting off circulation to my feet.
Tyler stirs in his sleeping bag. “Uncle Grayson? Are you okay?”
“Just bonding with your dog.”
“Roxy likes to cuddle. Mom says she thinks she’s a lap dog even though she’s really big.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Are you still sad about the lady?”
Kids. They cut right through adult complications and ask the questions that matter.
“Yeah, buddy. I am.”
“When I’m sad, Mom makes me hot chocolate and we watch movies. Does that help grown-ups too?”
“Sometimes.”
“Want me to ask Mom to make you hot chocolate?”
The offer, delivered with complete sincerity by a six-year-old in dinosaur pajamas, nearly breaks me.
“That’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind, just wake me up. I’m good at making people feel better.”
Tyler rolls over and goes back to sleep with the easy unconsciousness of childhood. I lie awake staring at glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, trapped under a dog who’s claimed me as his personal heating pad, wondering how I’m going to convince Michelle to give me another chance to do the right thing.
Twenty-four hours to save both my relationship and my project. Twenty-four hours to prove that some partnerships areworth fighting for, even when fighting means admitting you’ve been wrong about everything.
The dinosaur sheets, it turns out, are surprisingly comfortable.
The dog drool on my face come morning is less so.
TWENTY-ONE
MICHELLE
The federal grant papers cover my kitchen table in neat stacks that mock me. The money came through—enough to save Twin Waves and transform it into something special. Too bad the man who designed half the project decided I wasn’t worth fighting for when his investors questioned his judgment.
My phone buzzes. Jessica’s name flashes across the screen.
“Channel Seven wants to interview you about the grants,” she says. “This afternoon.”
“Just me?” Though I already know the answer. Grayson’s been avoiding me since yesterday.
“Unless you want to grovel and beg your missing ex-boyfriend to show up.”
“He’s not missing. He’s avoiding me.” The words scrape my throat.
“Michelle—”
“I have to go. Customer.”
