Page 25 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start

Her smile could power the entire waterfront district and possibly several neighboring counties. “By the way, you make a decent breakfast delivery service.”

“Don’t let that get around. I have a reputation to maintain as a heartless developer.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, along with your apparently sophisticated jazz knowledge and tendency toward emotional vulnerability.”

Outside, I lean against my truck and conduct post-battle analysis. By any reasonable business standard, this morning represents a disaster of epic proportions. But it also represents the best conversation I’ve had in ages.

My phone rings again. Scott’s patience has officially expired and possibly died. I drag a hand down my face before answering.

“Where are you?”

“Conducting community relations that may have saved our entire project,” I say, watching Michelle laugh with a customer at the counter. The sound carries faintly through the glass, far too distracting for an executive with a multimillion-dollar development on the line.

“Did they involve missing investor calls and possibly your sanity?”

“I was preventing community warfare and finding solutions that don’t require witness protection.”

Silence crackles on the other end. I can picture Scott pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Grayson, what’s going on? You’ve been distracted since this committee started organizing, and now you’re talking like you’ve had a religious experience involving coffee.”

He’s right, and that terrifies me. For years, I’ve approached every project with clinical detachment, the kind that would make robots proud. I don’t linger at community shops. I don’t buy breakfast for opposition leaders. And I definitely don’t stand outside a plate-glass window watching Michelle like she’s the gravitational center of my morning.

“I think we might need to reconsider our approach in ways that could revolutionize everything we think we know about development.”

Another pause. Longer this time. He’s giving me space to walk it back. I don’t.

“Reconsider how?”

“Find a way to build around the coffee shop instead of through it.”

The silence stretches so long I check the screen to see if the call dropped.

“Build around the coffee shop,” Scott repeats finally, his tone the verbal equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

“Build around the coffee shop.”

“The coffee shop that’s currently occupying the center of our development site?”

“The very same.”

“Owned by the woman organizing community opposition to our project and possibly staging a small revolution?”

“Correct,” I say, shifting my weight as Michelle leans over the counter, animated, her hands painting the air. “And she’s surprisingly strategic about it.”

“Grayson.” Scott’s voice carries the weight of years of partnership and possibly impending doom. “Are you having a breakdown?”

Possibly. My hand tightens around the phone until my knuckles ache. But no—it’s not a breakdown. It’s a breakthrough that feels like emotional lightning.

“I’m having a realization that could change everything,” I say, low. “And I think we’re going to need to get creative in ways that might require advanced engineering.”

Another heavy exhale on the line. “Creative.”

“Very creative. Like, ‘redefine what development means’ creative.”

“This is about the coffee shop owner, isn’t it?”

“More like community development that actually serves the town instead of steamrolling it into submission.”