Page 10 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

SIX

GRAYSON

Watching her for years taught me she takes two sugars and a splash of vanilla creamer in her coffee. Miranda used to say I never paid attention, but she was wrong. I pay attention. I’m just terrible at timing, like a broken clock that’s been struck by lightning.

I can see Michelle through the window, already inside getting ready for the day, but the door’s still locked since she doesn’t open until seven. I knock and wait, hoping she won’t think I’ve completely lost it showing up with coffee before she’s even officially open.

Michelle appears at the door, coffee-stained apron already on, hair twisted up in what I’ve learned means she’s been stress-prepping since 5 AM. When she sees me through the glass with the Martha’s Diner cup, her expression shifts through several emotions too quickly to catalog.

She unlocks the door and steps back. “Mr. Reed. You’re early. And bearing coffee from the competition.”

“Neutral territory. We both need food to think straight.” I walk to her counter and set down the bag like I’m delivering peace papers. “Think of it as an investment in talking things out.”

She stares at the bag like I just did magic instead of ordering breakfast. “How did you know what I like?”

Oh. Oh, no . Years of watching her have led to this moment where I either sound thoughtful or like a creepy stalker with a good memory. “Lucky guess?”

She raises one eyebrow like a detective who caught me red-handed. “Blueberry muffin and scrambled eggs isn’t a lucky guess, Grayson. That’s spy-level watching. Did you... did you take notes ?”

The fact that I absolutely did take mental notes—and maybe wrote them down once—feels like information that could ruin whatever tiny bit of respect I have left. “I notice things.”

“Or you’ve been planning to tear down my coffee shop longer than you said, and you’re really good at spying.”

“Or I’ve been your customer for years and picked up a few things.”

She pulls out the muffin and takes a small bite, closing her eyes briefly like she’s savoring her first real food in days. When she opens them again, some of the wariness is gone, replaced by something that might be tolerance.

“Thank you. I haven’t had time to make coffee, which is ironic since I own a coffee shop and should probably have my life together better.”

“When’s the last time you had a real meal?”

The question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, showing exactly how closely I’ve been watching her stress levels like some kind of health stalker. Her eyebrows shoot up, and I realize I’ve gone way past normal conversation territory.

“That’s not your business, and also weirdly specific for casual chat.”

“It is if you pass out during our meeting. Bad for my insurance.”

She studies me for a long moment, and I get the uncomfortable feeling she’s seeing straight through my business excuses to the real worry underneath, which is terrifying because I’m not ready for that level of honesty.

“I’m fine. This is perfect, actually.” She gestures to the muffin and eggs. “I was going to survive on espresso and determination until noon.”

“When did you last eat before this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Michelle.” I use her name like a worried parent, which is both wrong and accidentally effective.

“What? I’ve been busy saving my business! Eating becomes optional when your whole world’s being torn down by tall, attractive men with questionable morals.”

Did she just call me attractive? My brain short-circuits for a moment, which gives her time to realize what she said, and we both freeze like deer in headlights.

That gets her laser-beam attention. She leans forward, coffee forgotten. “What kind of solutions?”

I unwrap my sandwich, buying time while my brain scrambles to produce actual thinking instead of panic.

Truth: watching Michelle organize the town against me has been like taking a master class in leadership, and it’s making me question everything I thought I knew about building projects while also making me question my sanity.

“Eat first. Thinking requires blood sugar, and I refuse to negotiate with hangry opponents.”

She opens her sandwich wrapper with the same careful attention she uses to make latte art, which is both endearing and slightly nerve-wracking. “This is very good.”

“Martha’s doesn’t mess around with breakfast. She’s personally offended by bad food.”

“No, I mean this .” She gestures between us like she’s conducting an orchestra. “Bringing coffee, ordering food, sitting here talking like we’re not enemies in economic war. It’s confusing and maybe manipulative, but also unexpectedly thoughtful?”

“We don’t have to be enemies.”

The words hang in the air between us like a peace treaty written in disappearing ink while she processes this revolutionary idea.

“Is that Kind of Blue ?” I gesture toward her laptop speakers, where Miles Davis is filling the silence with mathematical poetry.

Her sandwich stops halfway to her mouth like time froze. “You know Miles Davis?”

“ Kind of Blue is the greatest jazz album ever recorded.”

She sets down her muffin, like I just announced I speak Martian. “The man destroying my dreams knows about Miles Davis?”

“The man trying to find solutions happens to appreciate good music and have surprisingly good taste for a heartless developer.”

“What else do you know about jazz?” She asks this like a pop quiz that will determine if I’m worthy as a human being.

“Enough to debate Chet Baker’s best recordings. Enough to know that most people think jazz is either elevator music or noise, but you understand it’s mathematical poetry that makes your brain dance.”

Her expression shifts like I revealed I’m actually an undercover intellectual instead of just a guy with a demolition permit.

“My dad used to play this exact album when he was fixing fishing nets on Sunday mornings. Said the improvisation reminded him that the best solutions come from working with what you’ve got instead of forcing what you want. ”

“Smart man with excellent philosophy.”

“He was.” Her voice softens with memory that makes my chest tighten. “He would have liked you. You both understood that good work requires patience and attention to detail, plus an unhealthy obsession with getting things exactly right.”

“Would have?”

“Cancer. Five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, like bringing a band-aid to a construction accident.

She nods, taking another bite of her muffin. “He taught me that building things that last means respecting what came before. That’s why this coffee shop matters. It’s not just my business—it’s my way of continuing his philosophy and possibly driving myself insane with perfectionism.”

Now I understand why she’s fighting so hard, and it hits me like a construction beam to the gut. This isn’t about money or profit. It’s about honoring memory, preserving values—family legacy. Which makes me feel like a monster with excellent building skills.

“Tell me about the coffee,” I say, steady. “Not the business side. The craft.”

Her eyes spark instantly, and I can already feel the warmth rolling off her expression. Exactly what I expected—and exactly why I asked.

“You really want to know?” she asks, already half lit up like she can’t contain it.

“I really want to know,” I reply, a hint of dry humor in my voice. “And I promise not to use this information for evil developer purposes.”

She launches into explanations about coffee beans, roasting, brewing timing, flavor notes that range from chocolate and caramel to floral and citrus like she’s describing a symphony written in caffeine.

She talks about relationships with coffee farmers, ethical sourcing, the difference between arabica and robusta beans.

She explains coffee with the same passion I explain construction—love for the craft and respect for the process that borders on religious devotion.

“The magic happens in the roasting. Too light, and you taste the bean’s potential but not its character. Too dark, and you burn away everything unique about where it came from. The perfect roast reveals exactly what that particular bean has to offer.”

“Finding the right balance between preservation and progress?”

She pauses, coffee cup halfway to her lips like I just solved advanced math. “That’s... actually a surprisingly good metaphor.”

“I do occasionally produce useful thoughts despite my apparently villainous exterior.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Accidental Wisdom.”

We spend the next twenty minutes debating coffee preparation methods with the same intensity most people reserve for political arguments or sports rivalries.

She challenges my belief that espresso is automatically better than pour-over with the fierceness of a defense attorney.

I question her devotion to French press brewing.

We discover a mutual appreciation for cold brew and shared skepticism about flavored syrups that could probably fuel rockets.

“You know,” she says, gathering wrappers, “this is the longest conversation we’ve had that didn’t involve building permits or threats.”

“We’ve talked before.”

“We’ve exchanged pleasantries that could have been performed by robots. Weather, weekend plans, holiday greetings. This is an actual conversation where we’ve revealed personality traits and possibly mutual intellectual compatibility.”

She’s right, and it’s terrifying. Years of careful politeness, and we’ve just spent an hour discovering chemistry that extends far beyond customer service transactions and into territory that could be dangerous for my emotional well-being.

“We should have tried actual conversation earlier.”

“Should we have?” She studies me with curiosity instead of suspicion, like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve instead of an enemy she’s trying to defeat. “Why didn’t we?”