Page 13 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

Penelope clears her throat. “Mr. Reed, how delightful! I was just telling Michelle what a wonderful learning opportunity this committee could be.”

Grayson’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I’m sure Ms. Lawson doesn’t need to learn anything. She made her position quite clear tonight.”

“Oh, but surely there’s room for growth,” Penelope presses, her smile sharp as cut glass. “Preserving the past is lovely, but building the future requires... more sophisticated perspectives.”

The temperature drops ten degrees. Jessica takes a step back.

“Sophisticated,” I repeat, letting the word hang like a loaded weapon. “Interesting choice.”

“I simply mean that development at this scale requires expertise beyond... local sentiment.” Her gaze flickers dismissively over my blazer, my hair, my entire existence.

“These are complex financial instruments, zoning regulations, architectural standards. Not really coffee shop concerns, if you understand my meaning.”

Fire licks through my veins.

“Mrs. Waters,” I say, my voice deceptively soft, “how thoughtful of you to assume I can’t comprehend concepts more complex than foam art and espresso temperatures.”

Grayson’s lips twitch—barely perceptible, but I catch it. His dark eyes hold mine for a heartbeat too long, and there’s appreciation in his gaze. Challenge. The look of a man who’s just watched his opponent draw blood.

“Of course not, darling,” Penelope recovers. “I simply think everyone should understand the scope of what we’re discussing. These aren’t decisions based on emotion alone.”

“Emotion,” I echo. “Is that what we’re calling informed community advocacy now?”

The air crackles, but not just from my standoff with Penelope. Grayson has moved closer—close enough that I catch hints of his cologne, close enough that I’m acutely aware of how he towers over me, close enough that my pulse kicks into dangerous territory.

His voice, when he speaks, is perfectly measured. “Mrs. Waters raises valid concerns about economic viability,” he says, but his eyes never leave mine. “Though I think we can agree that... passionate stakeholders bring valuable perspectives to the table.”

The way he says passionate sends heat spiraling through my chest. It’s not quite a compliment, not quite a challenge, but acknowledgment of a worthy adversary wrapped in silk-smooth diplomacy.

He’s not defending me. He’s marking territory, establishing himself as the only one qualified to spar with me intellectually. The possessive undertone makes my breath catch.

“Passionate,” I echo, my voice barely above a whisper. “Interesting word choice, Mr. Reed.”

His pupils dilate slightly. “I find passion... illuminating in business negotiations, Ms. Lawson. It reveals what people are truly willing to fight for.”

The subtext crackles between us like live wire.

We’re not just talking about development anymore.

The challenge in his voice, the way his gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second, the careful way he’s positioned himself just close enough to remind me how much larger he is—it’s a carefully orchestrated demonstration of power and restraint that makes my knees unsteady.

Scott clears his throat with the volume of a freight train, desperately trying to prevent his business partner from flirting with the enemy while the mayor’s wife collects ammunition for future social warfare.

“We should discuss logistics,” Scott says, voice strained.

“Absolutely,” Mayor Waters agrees. “Three people from each side. Meeting weekly to explore compromises.”

Penelope practically vibrates with excitement.

“I simply must be involved! I chair the tourism board, and this project will significantly impact our visitor experience.” She turns that razor-blade smile toward me.

“I hope you won’t mind working with someone who has actual experience in economic development, Michelle dear. ”

The woman just challenged me to political combat while smiling like she’s inviting me to tea.

“Weekly meetings,” I manage. “With him.” My eyes lock with Grayson’s, and the intensity makes my knees wobble.

“With her,” Grayson says simultaneously, his gaze dropping to my lips again before snapping away. For a heartbeat, we’re both staring at each other like we’ve been sentenced to collaborative detention with the most dangerously attractive person we’ve ever wanted to simultaneously throttle and kiss.

The air between us hums with electricity that has nothing to do with municipal committees.

“And with me,” Penelope adds sweetly, oblivious to the magnetic field threatening to consume everything within a five-foot radius. “This should be absolutely fascinating.”

“This will either solve our problem or create entirely new problems,” Scott mutters.

“Only one way to find out,” Jessica says cheerfully. “I volunteer to be one of Michelle’s representatives.”

“And I’ll represent development,” Grayson says, which means we’ll spend time in rooms together once a week, trying to find middle ground while fighting the urge to either argue or stare.

“Excellent,” Mayor Waters says, though he looks like he’s just struck a match in a dynamite factory. “First meeting Tuesday evening, town hall conference room.”

As people disperse toward the parking lot, I realize I’m walking the same direction as Grayson. We can either make conversation or pretend the other doesn’t exist while half the town watches.

Outside, the October night is crisp. Waves crash steadily against the shore, their rhythm hypnotic in darkness.

“So,” he says after we’ve walked ten feet in charged silence, “that went well.”

Laughter escapes before I can stop it. “If by ‘well’ you mean we declared war on each other’s dreams in front of everyone, then yes. Spectacular.”

“I was thinking more like we both proved we care enough about this place to fight for it.”

I stop walking and turn to look at him properly. The parking lot is mostly empty now. Streetlights create pools of warm light between long shadows, and the ocean provides its soundtrack of waves hitting sand.

“You really think you’re helping, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?”

Fair question. I realize I don’t think he’s evil. Wrong, but not malicious.

“I think I’m protecting things that can’t be replaced once they’re gone.”

“And I think I’m building things that can make what’s here stronger.”

We’ve reached my car. The conversation should end here, but neither of us moves.

“Can I ask you something?” Grayson leans against my passenger door, folding his arms like he’s settling in for an argument. He’s close enough that the woodsy scent of him sneaks into my lungs, unhelpfully distracting.

“Shoot.”

“What made you this determined to fight change?”

The question knocks me off balance. His gaze isn’t sharp this time—it’s curious, steady, and that makes it worse.

“I’m not fighting change. I’m fighting replacement.” My fingers toy with my keys, metal edges digging into my palm.

“There’s a reason, though.” His voice is low, almost reluctant. “A reason you turned this into a war.”

I could deflect, make a joke, but the shadows between the streetlights feel safer somehow. Honest.

“I had a business partner once, a person I trusted. We planned everything together—the shop, the recipes, the future.” My voice tightens, and I press my hand flat to the cold car roof, needing the anchor.

“And then I found out he’d been planning to cut me out.

Bought me out behind my back. Took everything.

The business, the money, even the relationship. We were engaged.”

Grayson doesn’t speak. The silence leaves room for the memory to throb like a bruise.

“So when someone shows up with big plans, deciding what my future should look like?—”

“You see him,” Grayson finishes quietly.

“Exactly.” I force a laugh that dies too quickly. “Someone with more resources deciding I don’t matter.”

“That’s not what this is.” His tone is sharper now, defensive.

“Isn’t it? You drew plans that assumed my shop was disposable. You’re talking about preserving community character while erasing the people who make it.”

“I’m trying to build a future.”

“David thought he was building a future too—more scalable, more profitable. Looked just like our dream on paper. But it wasn’t the same.” My throat tightens around the words.

I unlock the door with hands that won’t stay steady. “I should go.”

“Michelle, wait.”

I freeze, hand on the handle. His shadow stretches across the pavement toward me, long and dark.

“This isn’t the same,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not trying to cut you out.”

“No. Just make me irrelevant.”

“I’m trying to find a way it works together.”

The parking lot is empty, the waves pounding louder in the silence between us. I tilt my chin up, meet his eyes. There’s something raw there I don’t know what to do with.

“The problem is that some things can’t coexist. You can’t preserve what makes a place special while fundamentally changing it.”

“We won’t know until we try.”

There’s conviction in his voice that makes me think he’s not just talking about development anymore. This parking lot conversation has shifted into dangerous territory.

My heart pounds—not from anger, but from something far more complicated.

“I should really go,” I say again. But I still don’t move.

“The committee meetings,” Grayson says, his voice lower now. “Are you going to try to find compromise, or just show up and say no to everything?”

“Are you going to listen to community concerns, or just present variations of the same plan until we give up?”

“I guess we’ll find out Tuesday.”

“I suppose so.”

I get into my car, but before I can close the door, Grayson leans down. He’s so close, warmth radiates from him despite the cool October air.My hand goes slack on the door handle, fingers trembling against the metal.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words rough like they cost him something. “About your partner. That was betrayal, and you didn’t deserve it.”

The air rushes out of me in a shaky exhale. My throat tightens, my grip on the steering wheel unsteady. I wasn’t prepared for sympathy from him—especially not in that voice, low and sincere instead of clipped and combative.

“Thank you,” I manage, though it comes out softer, breathier than I’d like.

His hand rests on the frame of my door, steady, solid. “What you’ve built here—the shop, the people who trust you, the way you fight—it’s yours. Nobody can take that from you.”

He straightens and steps back, the loss of his nearness leaving the air colder. I sit frozen in my car long after he disappears, my heart pounding so hard it almost drowns out the waves.

I came here expecting to face a corporate developer with no heart. Instead, I had the most honest conversation I’ve had in months with someone who’s still planning to change everything I care about. With someone who understands exactly why that terrifies me.

I drive home through empty streets.

This is dangerous territory. I’ve spent years building a life safe from exactly this kind of complication. Now I’m developing respect for someone whose success depends on my failure.

Worse, I’m starting to wonder if his success and my survival might not cancel each other out after all.

Which is either the beginning of a solution or the beginning of a much bigger problem than waterfront development.

I park in my driveway and sit in the darkness, listening to the ocean. Trying to figure out whether I’m more afraid of losing my coffee shop or of discovering that Grayson Reed might be worth trusting.

Both possibilities threaten everything I’ve carefully built, and Tuesday’s committee meeting looms more complicated than simple negotiation.

I just agreed to weekly meetings with a man who makes me want things I’ve spent years avoiding, all to protect the life I built to avoid wanting those things.

This will either save Twin Waves or completely derail everything I’ve worked for.

I get out of the car and head inside, trying not to think about navy suits and woodsy cologne and the way someone can look at you like they’re seeing things you didn’t know you were showing.

Tuesday can’t come fast enough.

Tuesday can’t come slowly enough.

I’m in so much trouble.