Page 48 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start

“Know what?”

“That this is complicated. That we’re supposed to be professional. That getting involved with each other could complicate everything we’re trying to build here.”

“And?”

“And I can’t seem to care about any of that when you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

My heart stops. Completely stops. Then starts again at double speed.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

The honesty hits hard. “Because I do. I really, really do.”

She takes a small step closer, and now we’re definitely standing too close for professional collaboration. “That would be a terrible idea.”

“Absolutely terrible.”

“We’re members of the same committee.”

“Conflict of interest.”

“People would talk.”

“They’re already talking.”

“It could complicate everything.”

“Everything,” I agree.

But neither of us steps away. Michelle’s looking up at me with an expression that’s equal parts longing and uncertainty, and I’m looking down at her with the growing certainty that Caroline might win her bet.

“Grayson?” Michelle’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Good,” she says, and her smile is soft and dangerous and completely undoing. “Because I don’t either.”

ELEVEN

MICHELLE

The coffee shop after closing becomes our private disaster zone. Permit papers scatter between us, soft jazz drifts from the speakers, and October’s chill sneaks through windows that haven’t seen decent weather stripping since I moved back to Twin Waves. Perfect. I’ve created the ideal storm of inappropriate professional boundaries and romantic ambiance. Brilliant planning, Michelle. Invite your supposed enemy to an intimate committee meeting where dim lighting screams romance instead of city planning.

“The parking stuff is our biggest problem,” Grayson says, his pen tapping against the table in rhythm with the bass line.

The sound hypnotizes me. His business-focused intensity softens when he’s actually problem-solving instead of giving speeches to frustrated business owners who might murder him with coffee equipment. I catch myself staring at the way his jaw tightens when he concentrates and quickly redirect my attention to my notes.

“Fourteen spaces,” I finish, because I’ve run these numbers obsessively since the demolition notice arrived. “Which explains why half my customers drive around the block three times before giving up and going to the drive-through on Highway 9.”

“Exactly. But if we could show that most of your customers walk or bike here...” He glances up from his calculations, catching me mid-stare. Heat crawls up my neck. “You’ve been keeping track of who comes in, haven’t you?”

My cheeks burn. “I may have developed a spreadsheet habit since getting my eviction notice.”