Page 63 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
His eyes find mine across the chaos, and something soft and protective flickers in those mahogany depths. For a heartbeat, the entire coffee shop fades to background noise, and it’s just him and me and this tender thing blooming between us that feels too precious for public consumption.
“Are we now?” he says carefully, but there’s gentle amusement in his voice rather than panic.
“They’ve worked out all the details,” I manage, gesturing helplessly at our miniature wedding planners. “Apparently, I look like I’ve been hit with a happiness stick.”
The corner of his mouth curves up in that devastating almost-smile that makes my heart forget its rhythm. “You do look happy,” he says quietly, like it’s the most important observation in the world.
“Miss Michelle,” Ellen says with devastating five-year-old timing, “do you want to practice kissing Mr. Grayson?”
Heat flares in Grayson’s eyes for just a second before something protective and tender takes its place. He crouches down to Ellen’s level, bringing himself into her line of sight with the kind of respect you’d show an equal.
“Ellen, that’s very thoughtful of you to help with the planning,” he says seriously. “But kissing is something special that grown-ups do in private, when it’s just the two people who care about each other. It’s not for practice—it’s for when the moment feels exactly right.”
Ellen considers this with five-year-old solemnity. “So youdocare about Miss Michelle?”
Grayson’s gaze finds mine over her head, and the look he gives me is so full of promise and patience and something deeper that my breath catches audibly.
“Very much,” he says simply, never breaking eye contact with me. “Which is why we’re going to take our time and do this right.”
The words hit me like a physical caress.Take our time. Do this right.
“Does that mean you’ll still get married?” Mason asks, apparently satisfied with this adult approach to romance planning.
“It means,” Grayson says, standing and moving closer to the counter, “that Miss Michelle and I are going to get to know each other better.”
He sets the takeout bags on the counter, and when our fingers brush during the handoff, he doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his thumb traces across my knuckles in the softest whisper of contact—a promise that this thing between us is worth protecting, worth nurturing, worth taking the time to build properly.
“We’ll figure this out together,” he says quietly, meant only for me. “No rush. No pressure. Just... us.”
After he leaves, the coffee shop buzzes with commentary from the peanut gallery, but all I can think about is the way he looked at me when he said “together”—like he was offering me not just romance, but partnership. Safety. Time to trust.
And for the first time since David destroyed my faith in forever, I find myself believing that maybe some good things really are worth waiting for.
FOURTEEN
GRAYSON
Three days since Michelle kissed me in her coffee shop, and I can’t stop thinking about the way her mouth felt against mine. Scott keeps shooting me looks across the office like I’ve been replaced by an alien species that actually experiences emotions.
“You’re humming again,” he says, sliding blueprints across my desk. “During permit reviews. It’s deeply unsettling.”
“I don’t hum.”
“Yesterday you hummed through the entire investor call. While discussing foundation costs.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “In fifteen years of partnership, you’ve acknowledged music exactly never. Now you’re practically a walking soundtrack.”
I set down my coffee cup harder than necessary. “The project’s on schedule. Success breeds optimism.”
“This isn’t about permits.” Scott’s voice carries that tone he uses when he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “You disappeared at the midpoint celebration, came back looking like you’d been struck by lightning, and now you’re rescheduling concrete pours around book club meetings.”
The memory hits without warning—Michelle’s hands fisted in my shirt, her breath catching as I backed her against the counter, the taste of coffee and possibility on her lips. Three days, and I still feel the phantom weight of her body pressed against mine.
“Community relations are important.”
“Community relations.” Scott snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it when you stare at her coffee shop for ten minutes before walking in?”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting I’ve become pathetically obsessed with a woman who should be my professional adversary, the intercom buzzes.
“Mr. Reed? Your sister’s on line two.”
