Page 12 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

SEVEN

MICHELLE

T he community center buzzes with barely contained energy. Everyone’s back—but this time, the stakes have shifted. What started as information gathering has escalated into full-scale political warfare, and every single person in this room knows it.

One week since our first showdown. Seven days of phone calls, petition signatures, and heated conversations next to grocery store produce. The battle lines aren’t just drawn anymore—they’re carved in stone.

Through the open windows, salt air carries the scent of October storms rolling in from the Atlantic. The weather matches the mood perfectly: electric, unpredictable, ready to unleash hell.

Mayor Waters looks like a man who’s aged five years in the past week. His usual diplomatic smile has been replaced by a grim expression.

“Tonight we’re voting on whether to approve the conditional use permit for Reed Development’s waterfront project,” he announces. The room goes dead silent. “We’ve heard presentations. We’ve taken community input. Now it’s time to decide.”

My stomach drops. A vote. Tonight. This isn’t another round of presentations—this is the endgame.

Grayson sits in the front row, but he’s not wearing his usual confident-developer armor. His navy suit is impeccable as always, but there’s tension in the set of his shoulders, a tightness around his dark eyes that suggests this week of community warfare has gotten under his skin.

Our gazes collide across the room, and the impact hits me like a physical blow.

Heat flashes through my chest, followed immediately by panic.

Because the way he’s looking at me—intense, searching, almost hungry—has nothing to do with municipal politics and everything to do with the electricity that’s been building between us since that first morning in my coffee shop.

I force myself to look away before I do something stupid like forget we’re on opposite sides of a battle that could destroy everything I’ve built.

“Before we vote,” Mayor Waters continues, “I’ll open the floor for final statements. Keep them brief. We all know where everyone stands.”

Mrs. Sanders from the hardware store raises her hand first. “I’ve lived here forty-three years.

Never seen the community this divided. But I’ll tell you what I see when I look at that waterfront—empty storefronts, young people leaving, property taxes we can’t afford.

At least this development promises jobs. ”

Murmurs of agreement ripple through one section of the room. My heart sinks a little more.

Then Grandma Hensley stands, commanding attention with authority.

“Jobs are fine. But what kind of jobs? Minimum wage service positions for a company that’ll pack up and leave the minute profit margins get tight?

I’ve seen it before, sugar. Comes in promising the world, leaves you with nothing but debt and regret. ”

She sits down to fierce applause from my side of the room. But it’s not enough. I can feel the momentum shifting and can see doubt creeping into faces that were solidly in my camp just days ago.

That’s when Grayson rises from his seat.

He doesn’t approach the podium—just stands where he is, commanding the room through sheer presence alone. The man has a gift for making every space feel like his personal stage.

“I wasn’t planning to speak tonight,” he says, his voice carrying that low authority that makes my pulse skip despite my best efforts to remain immune. “But I think there’s something that needs to be said.”

His gaze finds mine across the room and holds. The air between us crackles with tension so intense it’s practically visible.

“Ms. Lawson accused me last week of not understanding this community. Of treating Twin Waves like a business opportunity instead of a home.” He pauses, letting the words settle. “She was right.”

My legs feel like overcooked pasta as I approach the podium. The microphone looms too tall, and I fumble with the adjustment while Grayson watches from the front row.

“Thank you,” I begin, and my voice echoes too loudly through the speakers.

After clearing my throat and finding proper volume, the words flow. “Mr. Reed paints an appealing picture. Who doesn’t want economic growth and job creation? But what he’s describing isn’t preservation—it’s preservation theater.”

Grayson’s posture shifts. I have his complete attention now.

“When you repackage everything authentic about a place for tourist consumption, you don’t save the community—you perform it. You turn real life into a theme park where everything looks perfect but nothing feels genuine.”

The words come easier now, fueled by watching other coastal towns lose their souls to well-intentioned development.

“My coffee shop isn’t just a business that serves caffeine.

It’s where Caroline studies every afternoon because the chaos at the Hensley house makes homework impossible with all those kids running around.

It’s where Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Rodriguez practice English conversation while debating whether Pride and Prejudice counts as romance or social commentary with decent character development. ”

Chuckles ripple through the audience, including one from Grayson that catches me off guard. It’s deeper than I expected, rich with genuine amusement, and the sound hits me right in the chest with unexpected force.

Inside the crowded room, the air feels too warm. Outside, fall winds carry wood smoke from a townsperson’s fireplace, mixing autumn and ocean into something that smells like home.

“These aren’t amenities you can replicate in master-planned communities. They’re relationships built over time, trust earned through consistent presence, connections that can’t be manufactured by focus groups.”

I’m hitting my rhythm now, the passionate flow that happens when discussing things I actually care about.

“I’m not opposed to progress. But real progress builds on what works instead of replacing it wholesale. It strengthens what we have rather than bulldozing it for shinier alternatives.”

Thunderous applause greets my conclusion. For one shining moment, victory seems possible. Then I look across the room and see Grayson watching me with an expression I can’t identify. Respect. Interest. Heat that makes my pulse stutter.

Which complicates everything, because respecting your opponent makes it infinitely harder to think of them as the enemy.

Mayor Waters calls for order, promising additional input sessions. As people file out, conversations continue in tight clusters. Battle lines are clearly drawn.

I’m accepting congratulations when Jessica appears beside me, watching Grayson field questions across the room.

“That was quite a performance,” she says.

“It wasn’t performance. I was telling the truth.”

“I know. That’s what made it effective.” Jessica grins. “Also, did you notice he couldn’t take his eyes off you while you were speaking?”

“He was probably calculating legal fees.”

“Honey, that wasn’t the look of a man doing math.”

Before I can protest that Jessica’s brain sees romantic tension everywhere, Mayor Waters approaches with his wife Penelope gliding beside him like a designer-dressed predator.

Penelope Waters can smile sweetly while sliding a knife between your ribs. Tonight she wears a cream suit, blonde hair perfectly styled despite the October wind.

“Great presentations tonight,” Mayor Waters says diplomatically. “Passionate arguments on both sides.”

“Oh yes,” Penelope adds, honey dripping over steel. “So refreshing to see such... passionate community involvement.” She makes passion sound like a character flaw.

“Thank you, Mayor.” I was aiming for competent leader and probably achieved woman ready to flip tables.

Penelope’s smile sharpens. “Michelle, darling, you spoke beautifully about preserving our little town’s charm. Though I wonder if holding too tightly to the past might prevent us from embracing wonderful growth opportunities.”

The knife is wrapped in silk and Southern manners.

“I think we all learned something tonight,” Mayor Waters continues quickly, shooting his wife a warning look. “This kind of engagement makes Twin Waves special.”

“Speaking of engagement,” Jessica says with studied innocence, “didn’t you want to discuss a compromise committee? Bringing different sides together?”

I stare at Jessica like she just suggested experimental dental surgery. “A what now?”

Penelope’s eyes light up. “Oh, what a marvelous idea! Nothing brings communities together like structured dialogue.” She clasps manicured hands. “I’d be happy to volunteer my organizational skills.”

Mayor Waters looks like he’s watched careful diplomatic balance teeter toward complete chaos. “Well, that’s generous, Penelope, but?—”

“A compromise committee,” he repeats quickly. “Representatives from both sides working together to find common ground.”

Penelope turns to me with that smile that never reaches her calculating blue eyes. “Michelle, honey, this could be a wonderful learning experience. Working with real development professionals, seeing how these projects actually function.”

The condescension drips like poisoned honey. My jaw clenches.

“That sounds—” I begin, but get interrupted by a voice that sends unwelcome heat down my spine.

“Sounds like exactly what we need,” Grayson says, joining our group. His business partner Scott follows, looking like he’s watched his colleague make increasingly questionable decisions all evening.

The first thing that hits me is his scent—woodsy and warm with hints of expensive cologne.

Up close, he’s deliciously disheveled. His navy tie hangs loose, the top button of his dress shirt undone, revealing a triangle of throat that makes my mouth go dry.

There’s tension around his dark eyes, and I realize tonight hasn’t gone according to his plan.

Our gazes meet and hold for a heartbeat too long. His drops briefly to my mouth before snapping back up, and I catch his slight intake of breath.