Page 36 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Or maybe I’m fundamentally broken and should stick to construction projects that don’t require emotional intelligence or human connection.”
“Or maybe you just need a woman who speaks your language.” Her voice drops to that whisper that makes my skin burn.
“Construction terminology and project management jargon?”
“Coffee shop regulars and morning routines.” She leans closer, her breath warming my skin. “A girl who knows how you like your coffee and what makes you smile and exactly which expression you get when you’re thinking too hard about something.”
The words are loaded with years of accumulated meaning, of Michelle having my coffee ready before I reached the counter, of building something together through daily interactions and shared morning rituals without either of us realizing what we were creating.
“Michelle...” I start, then make the fatal mistake of leaning forward for emphasis. The chair—which has been protesting my presence all evening—finally surrenders to physics entirely. I feel it give way beneath me just as I’m shifting my weight, sending me sliding backward at an impossible angle that defies both gravity and dignity.
But this time, instead of just ending up wedged against furniture, my momentum carries me completely off the chair. I grab instinctively for something to steady myself and end up catching Michelle’s hand—the same hand that was tracing patterns on my knuckles—pulling her forward just as I’m falling backward.
The next few seconds unfold in spectacular slow motion. Michelle, caught off balance by my death grip on her hand, tumbles forward off the couch just as I’m crashing toward thefloor. We collide mid-air with the grace of two people who clearly skipped physics class, creating a tangle of limbs that would be comedic if it weren’t so potentially awful.
I land first, my back hitting the area rug with enough force to knock the wind out of me, and then Michelle lands on top of me with the full weight of a woman who was not expecting to participate in impromptu trust falls during municipal committee meetings.
For a moment, we’re both completely still, trying to process what just happened and whether any bones are broken. Michelle’s hair has fallen around her face like a curtain, creating an intimate cocoon that blocks out the rest of the world. Her hands are braced on either side of my head, and her body is pressed against mine in ways that make every nerve ending in my body light up like a Christmas tree.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, her face inches from mine, close enough that I can see the concern in her dark eyes and count her eyelashes and feel her breath against my lips.
“I’m fine,” I manage, though my voice comes out rough and breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with hitting the floor. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head slightly, but doesn’t move away. If anything, she seems to realize our position at the same moment I do—how perfectly she fits against me, how right this feels despite being the result of furniture failure and gravitational betrayal.
“Hi,” I say stupidly, because apparently when my brain short-circuits, it defaults to monosyllabic greetings while my body focuses on more pressing concerns—like how soft she feels pressed against me and how her pulse is racing at the base of her throat.
“Hi yourself,” she whispers back, and there’s something different in her voice now—something heated and dangerousthat makes my hands want to slide up to frame her face and discover exactly how she tastes.
The moment stretches between us like a held breath, loaded with years of unspoken attraction and the kind of tension that could ignite with the wrong word or right touch. I can see the exact second she becomes aware of how we’re positioned, how her breathing changes and her pupils dilate and something wild flickers across her features.
“This doesn’t change anything practical,” she says finally, but her voice is breathless now, and she still hasn’t moved away. “You’re still planning to demolish my coffee shop, and I’m still organizing the entire town against you in an epic battle for the soul of Twin Waves.”
“Right. We’re still technically enemies engaged in professional warfare,” I agree, but my hands have somehow found her waist. Heat seeps through her shirt, burning into my palms. My chest tightens, lungs pulling shallow breaths I can’t seem to deepen.
“Enemies who’ve been accidentally falling for each other for years while completely missing all the obvious signs.”
Her words are a lit fuse between us. I feel it in my body before I register it in my brain—my pulse hammering, my mouth going dry. She realizes what she’s said, eyes widening, color rushing her cheeks, but she doesn’t pull back. If anything, she leans closer. Our foreheads almost touch, and the nearness makes my entire frame go taut, every muscle coiled with an anxiety I haven’t felt in years.
“While being emotionally incompetent and terrible at reading social cues,” I add, my voice scraping out rougher than it should. The sound betrays me—too raw, too revealing.
“Speak for yourself. I’m only mostly emotionally incompetent with occasional flashes of brilliant insight.” Hersmile turns wicked, and my chest clenches in a way that’s almost painful. “Like right now, for instance.”
I drag in a breath, but it catches halfway. My heart’s pounding like I’m back on the soccer field in high school, except this feels ten times riskier. “What situation? We’re lying on the floor of your coffee shop after hours discussing municipal planning while having what might be the most honest conversation of my adult life.”
“So... not a relationship.”
But her eyes tell a different story. And the space between us feels electric, dangerous. My body knows it before my brain can issue a warning: this is the closest I’ve let myself come to wanting a relationship since Miranda. And the sheer intensity of it terrifies me almost as much as it makes me want to close the distance and find out what happens if I do.
“Definitely not a relationship or anything resembling romantic development.” She shifts slightly, and the movement sends heat racing through my bloodstream like wildfire. “Just two people who can’t seem to focus on committee work and apparently can’t be trusted around basic furniture.”
“Very unprofessional and completely inappropriate behavior,” I agree, but my thumb is tracing circles on her hip bone, and she’s not stopping me.
“The mayor would be scandalized and possibly require therapy.”
“Scott would probably fire me and ban me from future municipal projects.”
“Jessica would demand all the details and take extensive notes for future blackmail material and wedding planning.”
