Page 2 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Something along those lines.”

He approaches with that no-nonsense stride, but his gaze keeps drifting to those scones with longing.

“Double espresso,” he says, clipped as always. Then, after a pause, he adds, “And maybe... information. About the scones.”

I nearly drop the espresso cup. Grayson Reed just requested information using complete sentences instead of grunts.

“Information?”

“The recipe,” he clarifies, looking as though he’d rather be eaten by seagulls. “Is it... local?”

“My grandmother’s recipe,” I tell him, setting his espresso down with hands that are definitely not trembling. “She made them for church socials. Said the secret was buttermilk from happy cows and unmeasured love.”

He nods seriously. “They’re... good.”

Coming from Grayson Reed, this qualifies as Shakespearean sonnets of culinary praise.

That’s when he reaches for the sugar dispenser.

The lid isn’t screwed on properly.

What happens next unfolds in slow motion. The entire top pops off, unleashing a glittering avalanche that pours across the counter, coats my apron, and rains straight into my open mouth as I gasp. Sugar grit crunches between my teeth, sticky granules clinging to my lips and settling in my hair like confetti.

“Oh no!” I lunge for napkins, spitting sugar and sending the cinnamon shaker flying. It hits the counter with aclink, and suddenly I’m trapped in a brown dust storm. Cinnamon coats my tongue with a chalky burn and fills my nose until I sneeze so violently I stumble backward into the espresso machine.

Which is currently pulling a shot.

A jet of scalding espresso sprays across my shirt, prickling hot against my skin before dripping into my hair and down my neck. The rich, bitter smell wraps around me, drowning out the sharp spice of cinnamon.

We freeze in a tableau of caffeinated disaster. I’m sugar-dusted and cinnamon-stained, espresso dripping in rivulets. Grayson stands stiffly beside me, his immaculate white dress shirt now decorated with brown blotches.

“I—” Another violent sneeze erupts, sending a fresh cinnamon cloud into the air.

Caroline chooses that exact moment to look up. Her eyes widen, then sparkle with delight as she takes in the wreckage—me, looking like a rejected contestant fromNailed It, and Grayson, the unsuspecting victim of my coffee crime spree.

“Holy sugar,” she breathes, clapping a hand over her mouth with mock horror that fools no one. “Michelle, you wrestled a gingerbread house and lost.”

A laugh bursts out—too bright, too desperate, deepening his scowl from “mildly irritated” to “questioning every life choice.”

Mrs. Hensley lowers her newspaper with queenly disapproval. “Well, at least it’s excellent for exfoliation. Though I question the delivery method.”

Grayson mutters under his breath, pulling out his wallet. That’s when I notice the black leather folder.

The logo saysReed Development Corp.

Wait.

Grayson Reed.

Of course. Reed Development Corporation. Another smiling destroyer with paperwork in his pocket. Eight years vanish in a blink, and I taste the same metallic fear on my tongue.

How did I never make this connection?

“Michelle?” He clears his throat. “You look like you’re about to faint. It’s just sugar, not the apocalypse.”

“Reed Development Corporation,” I say quietly, voice steady.

Recognition flickers—not guilt, but something else. It’s like he just understood his morning coffee routine just became complicated.