Page 44 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start

She takes her coffee and settles at her usual table by the window, leaving me standing at the counter feeling targeted by Twin Waves’ unofficial matchmaking committee.

“Sorry about that,” Michelle says quietly. “She means well.”

“It’s fine. She’s not wrong about the tie situation being...” I search for the right word. “Unusual.”

Michelle’s smile carries a hint of shyness that makes my stomach do gymnastics. “That’s one way to describe it.”

“How would you describe it?”

She considers this for a long moment, and I recognize my own confusion reflected in her expression. The same awareness that everything shifted between us yesterday, making tonight’s committee meeting infinitely more complicated.

“I’d call it dangerous,” she says finally.

“Dangerous how?”

“Because I liked taking care of you.” Her voice drops to something barely above a whisper, intimate and devastating. “And that’s definitely not supposed to be part of our professional relationship. But heaven help me, Grayson, when you looked at me like I was the only person in the world who could fix something broken...” She trails off, her cheeks flushing pink.

The admission hits me like a physical blow. She liked taking care of me. Which means yesterday wasn’t just wishful thinking or delayed reaction to a marriage that never made me feel anything close to this intensity.

“Michelle—” I start, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t.” Her hand comes up between us, not quite touching my chest but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her palm. “Because if you say whatever you’re about to say, I might do something completely unprofessional. Like climb over this counter and find out if you taste as good as you smell.”

My breath catches. The espresso machine hisses behind her, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and the confession she just made. The one that confirms every dangerous thought I’ve been having about her mouth, her hands, what it would feel like to have her pressed against me without any pretense of professional distance.

“That would be...” I swallow hard, my voice coming out like gravel. “Extremely unprofessional.”

“Completely inappropriate,” she agrees, but she doesn’t step back. If anything, she sways closer, and now I can see the pulseracing at her throat, can smell her perfume mixing with the coffee and making my head spin.

“People would definitely talk.”

“They’re already talking.” Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from reaching for her. “Mrs. Spencer texted me this morning. There’s apparently a betting pool.”

“About what?” My voice is barely functioning.

“About when we’re going to stop pretending we don’t want each other and just give in to this thing that’s been building between us for seven years.”

She’s been feeling this too. This magnetic pull that I’ve been telling myself was one-sided professional courtesy.

“I should get back to work,” she says quickly, turning to wipe down the already-spotless espresso machine. “You should probably go prepare for tonight.”

She’s right. But my feet have apparently decided to stage a rebellion against rational decision-making.

“What if tonight goes well?” I ask. “What if we actually find solutions that work for everyone?”

“Then you get your development modifications, and I get to keep fighting for my coffee shop’s place in them.”

“And this?” I gesture between us. “Whatever this is?”

She stops wiping the counter and looks at me with an expression that’s equal parts longing and resignation.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I honestly don’t know.”

The construction office buzzes with pre-meeting energy, but I spend the rest of the day staring at the same spreadsheet while replaying Michelle’s admission thatshe liked taking care of me. Community impact projections pale in comparison to the memory of her fingers working against my collar, her face serious with concentration.

Scott appears in my doorway around lunch, taking one look at my glazed expression and settling into the chair across from my desk.

“You look distracted,” he observes. “Everything okay?”