Page 1 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

ONE

MICHELLE

O ctober in Twin Waves arrives with crisp coastal air that whispers promises of fresh beginnings.

Behind the restored lunch counter sits my pride and joy: a gleaming copper espresso machine.

The display case showcases cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates, sweet potato biscuits that could make grown men weep, and my legendary scones—built from my grandmother’s secret recipe, packed with local blueberries, apple cinnamon, or cranberry orange.

People drive from three counties over for these beauties.

The shop buzzes with its usual rhythm—fishers needing coffee strong enough to power boats, commuters grabbing fuel for spreadsheet survival, and regulars who understand my coffee shop isn’t just about caffeine. It’s about community.

“Those scones are perfect enough for Food & Wine ,” Mr. Bennett calls from his corner table, second black coffee in hand.

“Perfection is a journey,” I manage, adjusting one more apple cinnamon scone because ownership has turned me into a person with strong opinions about pastry geometry.

He studies my face with concern. “You’re wound tighter than my fishing line during tuna season. Is everything alright?”

“Just caffeinated,” I lie, forcing brightness into my voice. Admitting the truth—that uncertainty makes my chest squeeze like I’m about to drown—isn’t an option. I’ve already learned what happens when you trust too much.

Mrs. Hensley sweeps through the door with royal authority, claiming her window throne. “Michelle, dear, autumn is the most romantic season. The changing leaves make people open to possibility. I can sense it in my bones, which are more accurate than the Weather Channel.”

“My bones are committed to making coffee,” I reply.

Mrs. Hensley delivers that look suggesting my resistance to romance ranks somewhere between temporary delusion and psychological breakdown.

“This season’s bringing changes. The leaves aren’t the only things about to turn.

” She narrows her eyes at the boardwalk.

“Just look at Reed Development Corporation swooping in with their so-called ‘progress.’ Nothing progressive about bulldozing history.”

Reed Development Corporation. The name lodges in my chest, but before I can press for details, Caroline storms through the door.

Caroline is twenty, Jack’s daughter, and looks as if she rolled out of bed into a thrift store explosion. Today’s ensemble features a hoodie three sizes too big, eyeliner sharp enough for emergency surgery, and the general aura of a college kid personally offended by existence.

“Oh look, my favorite caffeine dealer,” she announces, collapsing against the counter. “I need the strongest thing you have. Economics class is murdering my will to live.”

“How’s the paper progressing?” I create her usual caramel macchiato, adding the cinnamon she pretends not to love.

“Fantastic. Nothing says ‘thrilling pursuit’ like dealing with sustainable development in coastal communities.” She wraps her hands around the mug. “I need to interview local business owners. Want to be my guinea pig?”

“I’m not sure my business model of ‘panic quietly while serving coffee’ qualifies as sustainable development.”

“Please. You know everyone’s secrets the second they order lattes, and you’ve got the town convinced this place is free therapy with caffeine addiction.”

The door chimes, bringing October air and?—

My heart does that stupid flutter it’s been perfecting despite my brain’s lectures about emotional unavailability and developing feelings for customers who communicate in prehistoric grunts.

Grayson Reed walks through my door. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair battling the coastal breeze, and brown eyes that catalog everything.

Crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. My most reliable customer. Double espresso, twenty percent tip, conversational skills of an antisocial brick wall.

But today he stops at the display case and actually looks at my scones with NASA-level focus.

“Those apple cinnamon ones,” he says, voice carrying gravelly morning quality that could dissolve concrete, “they’re... different today.”

Grayson Reed just made voluntary conversation about pastry.

“Different how?” I manage, voice pitched higher because my vocal cords decided to be weird today.

“Bigger,” he says. “I mean—they’re always substantial. But today they’re...” He gestures vaguely.

“The size of small aircraft carriers?”

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 a clink , 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 from Nailed 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 says Reed 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.

“Yes,” he says, voice clipped. “That’s my company.”

Silence stretches, broken only by Caroline’s sharp breath.

“What’s Reed Development Corporation?” she asks.

“The company demolishing my coffee shop,” I say. “Sixty days to vacate.”

“What?” Caroline’s voice launches high enough to make nearby customers swivel in their seats. “They want to tear down the coffee shop? Are they nuts? This place is civilization’s beating heart.”

“Our civilization needs upgrading, apparently,” I mutter, bitterness roughening my voice.

The sugar grit on my skin feels like sandpaper, cinnamon burns the back of my throat, and the heat of espresso still prickles across my chest. My anger simmers hot beneath it all, sticky and suffocating, like I’ve been wrapped in frustration and dessert toppings.

Caroline turns to Grayson, her expression twisting into horrified disbelief. “Mr. Reed, please tell me you’re not tearing this place down.”

“The development project—” he begins in a maddeningly calm tone.

“Is going to destroy Michelle’s coffee shop,” Caroline interrupts, voice rising to seismic levels.

We stare across the counter that’s served as our relationship boundary—customer and business owner sharing coffee orders and weather small talk but never anything deeper.

Now I understand why that distance felt comfortable.

It was built on a foundation I never questioned because I was too busy admiring his forearms.

“I didn’t realize you owned this place,” he says quietly, making Caroline exhale loudly.

“Mr. Reed,” she says, “she’s behind the counter every day when you arrive. There are photos of her hanging Christmas ornaments right over there. There’s a framed newspaper article about her opening the shop behind your head with her picture. How could you possibly not know?”

He runs a hand through his hair, making it more disheveled and distractingly attractive, which feels offensive considering the circumstances. “My contract’s with the property owner, not tenants. I don’t study who makes lattes.”

“Right. Then why is your order so routine I start making it when your truck hits the parking lot?” I say. “And you’ve complimented my seasonal decorations every autumn.”

His jaw tightens—the first visible crack in his professional armor. “Michelle?—”

“Tell me you’re not actually tearing down Michelle’s coffee shop,” Caroline interrupts.

“The project is already in motion,” he says in a calm voice. “Paperwork filed, permits approved, contracts signed. I’m not cancelling because it’s inconvenient.”

Inconvenient.

The word hits like a sledgehammer. I’ve built a place where community happens, and to him, it’s just inconvenient.

“Mr. Reed, this is my entire life.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he says.

“Actually, it’s simple,” Caroline says. “You want to tear down her shop. She doesn’t want her shop torn down. Here’s a revolutionary concept. Maybe don’t demolish historic buildings.”

Silence stretches, filled with the buzz of conversation as customers sense entertainment better than cable television.

Mrs. Hensley is watching us like we’re acting out a courtroom drama.

“I should go,” Grayson says, reaching for his wallet.

“Yes,” I agree with more venom than I should display publicly. “You should.”

He places exact change—no tip this time, apparently demolishing livelihoods affects gratuity—then turns toward the door as though fleeing a crime scene.

At the threshold, he pauses, shoulders tense. “For what it’s worth,” he mutters, “I’m sorry.”

The door closes before I can respond, leaving me sugar-covered, espresso-stained, and hollow in the chest. My hands shake as I grab for napkins, the grit of sugar biting against my skin. Cinnamon still burns in my nose, and underneath it all, anger flares hot enough to mask the embarrassment.

Caroline stares after Grayson, her eyes wide, then narrowing with fury. “Unbelievable. He waltzes in here in a suit, ruins your morning, and tells you he’s tearing this place down? Who does that?”

Mrs. Hensley snaps her notebook shut like a gavel. “Arrogant, that’s what. Men who think money means they can take whatever they want.”

I brush cinnamon from my eyebrows, throat tight. “Exactly. He’s not some romantic hero. He’s the villain in this story.”

Caroline crosses her arms, her glare fierce enough to scorch. “Then he just declared war on civilization itself. Because this coffee shop is civilization’s beating heart.”

Mrs. Hensley nods sharply, lips pressed thin. “He picked the wrong community to bulldoze. We don’t roll over for out-of-town developers.”

Their anger thrums through the room, mingling with mine, fortifying me. I stand straighter, the mess around me less humiliating now and more like battle scars.

“Fine,” I mutter, shaking sugar from my sleeves with what remains of my dignity. “Game on, Mr. Reed.”

Caroline’s eyes spark with approval. Mrs. Hensley folds her arms with regal finality. And just like that, the shop feels less like a stage for disaster and more like the front lines of a fight I’m not planning to lose.

The caffeine wars have officially begun.