Page 10 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start

My head shakes automatically. “Been there, learned that lesson expensively. Partnership means trusting another person with your livelihood. I’m finished making that mistake.”

Caroline studies me. “Michelle, when you discuss Mr. Reed, you get this certain look on your face,” Caroline says softly.

“What kind?”

“You look bummed out.”

Lila turns to me. “She does, doesn’t she?”

I scrub the side of the espresso machine with unnecessary vigor. “My customer turned into my enemy. Obviously I’m disappointed.”

“Is that all he was? Just a customer?” Lila asks.

Reality is complicated, and I’m unprepared for close examination.

Truth is, I’ve gotten used to Grayson Reed being the most reliable part of my morning routine. Safe interaction without emotional risk. Even if he’s always the grumpiest one in the building.

At some point, I began anticipating those ten minutes. I noticed when he looked exhausted from late projects and got pleased about successful builds. Or when he lingered seconds longer.

I’ve been attracted to Grayson Reed longer than I care to admit, and now I feel like an idiot for thinking those feelings might be mutual instead of entirely one-sided delusion.

“He was a customer. Nothing more.”

Caroline snorts, but the afternoon crowd provides escape from further interrogation.

Mrs. Hensley sits at her usual table, updating anyone within earshot about the “development situation.”

Amber’s father stops by offering solidarity and The Salty Pearl’s fish chowder because “Amber said, ‘fighters need proper nutrition.’” Jack’s mom visits to discuss “legal options” over decaf, speaking in careful tones.

Everyone wants to help. Some express outrage. Others agree Grayson Reed should have handled this differently, though opinions vary on exactly how.

Part of me keeps replaying his expression when I said his company’s name. Genuine surprise, shock even, as if he hadn’t connected my coffee shop to his development plans until that precise moment.

Either exceptional acting or legitimate cluelessness about how his business decisions impact people he sees daily.

Neither option improves my mood.

The evening lull provides an opportunity to properly examine the demolition notice instead of skimming it in panic mode. Legal language spins my comprehension—apparently law school is required to understand that I’m being evicted from my own existence.

I’m deep in research about historic preservation possibilities when Mrs. Hensley approaches the counter, abandoning her usual table with a determined stride.

“Sugar, I’ve been thinking about your situation,” she announces, settling her considerable purse with authority. “My nephew’s a real estate lawyer up in Raleigh who specializes in development disputes.”

“Mrs. Hensley, I appreciate the offer, but legal fees?—”

“Family rates,” she interrupts with a dismissive hand wave. “Besides, that boy owes me. I kept his teenage shenanigans quiet from his mother for three years, so it’s time to collect.”

Despite everything, laughter escapes. “You maintain blackmail files on your own family?”

“Honey, I keep files on half this town. Information is currency, and I practice fiscal responsibility.”

Mads pushes open the door to the shop, crossing the room to us, her wavy auburn hair loose around her shoulders. “Hey, Grandma.” She hugs Mrs. Hensley and then turns and greets me as well. “You guys won’t believe what I just overheard at the beach boutique,” she says, sliding onto her usual stool. “My old college statistics teacher, Professor Groves, was complaining about some development project on the phone, and I may have accidentally eavesdropped while restocking the sunscreen.”

My heart executes a little skip. “Accidentally eavesdropped?”

“Look, when your professor starts discussing preserving historic buildings and your friends’ shops are getting demolished, you linger strategically. Sue me.” Mads shrugs. “Apparently, our entire waterfront district qualifies for something called ‘heritage designation’ if we can prove the community has used the space continuously for fifty years.”

Mrs. Hensley claps her hands together. “Well, I’ll be. That changes everything.”