Page 15 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

I reach for more napkins and, in my emotional turbulence, somehow manage to knock my coffee cup straight into the abyss between couch cushions. We both watch in horror as it disappears into furniture purgatory.

“Oh no,” Michelle breathes, already diving for napkins. “That’s going to stain everything in a five-foot radius.”

She crouches beside me, trying to wedge napkins into the cushions while I wrestle with the frame. Our fingers brush in the scramble, sending an inconvenient jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with caffeine.

“Don’t give me those sympathetic contractor eyes,” she mutters, though her voice softens as she presses napkins into the crevice. “I survived, didn’t I? Learned valuable lessons about reading contracts and never letting anyone else handle my business registrations.”

“Such as?” I grunt, prying the cup free at last. I emerge victorious but ridiculous, the coffee cup in one hand and half the sofa’s stuffing clinging to my shirt like evidence of my unraveling.

Michelle straightens, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read—amusement flickering over something deeper.

“Never trust a man who insists on ‘organizing’ your important documents,” she says, her voice dipping into that register that unravels my concentration. “And if someone suggests matching aprons on the third date, that’s not romance—it’s reconnaissance for future identity theft.”

Despite the horror she’s describing, a smile tugs at me while I pluck polyester fuzz from my sleeve. There’s something about her resilience, the way she laces humor through betrayal, that makes me want to protect her and laugh with her in equal measure.

“Matching aprons on the third date should be a red flag visible from orbit,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.

“Exactly.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief, transforming her face. “Anyone that eager to coordinate wardrobes is plotting world domination—or at least coffee shop domination with a side of grand larceny.”

“How long did you fight him in court?”

“Two years and most of my savings. But I won in the end—sort of. He got to keep his stolen empire, and I got to keep my dignity and a court order preventing him from using my grandmother’s cinnamon roll recipe.”

“The cinnamon roll recipe represents the real victory.”

“Absolutely. That recipe is family gold. My grandmother would have haunted me from beyond if I’d let David profit from her secret ingredient.”

“Which is?” I lean forward with genuine curiosity, momentarily forgetting this furniture’s proven unreliability.

The chair tilts at an alarming angle, and I have to grip the armrests to avoid tumbling onto the floor—but the precarious position brings me closer to Michelle, close enough to see her pupils dilate.

Michelle gives me a look that could melt steel and probably several other industrial materials. Her eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter and my mouth go dry, and when she speaks, her voice drops to a whisper that feels like silk dragged across bare skin.

“Nice try, Reed. That information is classified at the highest levels of national security.” She leans forward slightly, closing the distance between us by another dangerous inch. “I’d have to eliminate you if I revealed it.”

The way she says ‘eliminate’ makes my heart stop. There’s something predatory in her smile, something that suggests she’s playing a game I don’t fully understand but desperately want to learn. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

“Fair enough. I’m not prepared to die for pastry secrets,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “Though at this rate, your furniture might eliminate me first.”

“Smart choice.” Her smile turns wicked, and I realize she knows exactly what effect she’s having on me. “Those cinnamon rolls have been known to start territorial disputes between neighboring coffee shops and cause grown adults to weep with joy.”

We’re both laughing now, but there’s an undercurrent of sexual tension that makes every shared glance feel like a challenge.

This is the first time Michelle’s told this story without looking ready to set something ablaze, and I realize she’s letting me see her—really see her—maybe for the first time.

“Is that why you returned to Twin Waves?” I ask, carefully readjusting my position in the treacherous chair.

“Came crawling back with my tail between my legs, you mean?” She shrugs, but there’s steel in her spine that suggests she’s anything but defeated.

“This town took me in when I had nowhere else to go. Let me start over with nothing but a broken heart and a coffee supplier with flexible payment terms.”

“And now I’m attempting to tear down the life you rebuilt from those ashes.” The words taste like betrayal on my tongue.

“When you phrase it that way, you sound like the villain in a particularly devastating romance novel.”

“Emotionally unavailable contractor destroys a woman’s dreams while slowly falling for her,” I say, then attempt to gesture dramatically—a decision I immediately regret when it sends the sugar bowl flying.

Sugar scatters across the table like chaos theory in action, and I realize I’m becoming increasingly unhinged in her presence.

“Critics call it heartbreakingly realistic and a masterclass in terrible timing.”

“That’s definitely not making bestseller lists.” Michelle reaches for napkins, but we’re both moving simultaneously and our hands collide over the sugar mess. The contact—her fingers brushing against mine—sends electricity shooting up my arm like I’ve been struck by lightning.

We freeze like that, hands barely touching over spilled sugar, both suddenly aware that something fundamental has shifted between us. Her breathing has changed, become shallower, and I can see her pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat like a trapped bird.

The moment stretches between us, loaded with possibility and danger in equal measure. Heat radiates from her skin, her perfume mixed with coffee and cinnamon, and every rational thought in my head is screaming at me to pull away before I do something irreversibly stupid.

But I don’t want to be rational anymore. I want to trace that pulse with my mouth until she makes those little breathless sounds I’ve been imagining for years.

“But it might win awards for Most Accurate Depiction of My Romantic History,” I say, my voice considerably rougher than the situation warrants, “and Least Successful Professional Meeting in Municipal Planning History.”

Michelle looks at me with those warm brown eyes that have been dismantling my defenses for years, and when she speaks, her voice carries a heat that goes straight to my bloodstream like whiskey.

“You know, for someone who claims to be emotionally unavailable, you’re demonstrating impressive vulnerability right now.”

Her thumb brushes across my knuckles—accidentally or intentionally, I can’t tell—and the simple contact makes my breath catch audibly.

“Don’t give me too much credit. This could be a temporary malfunction.

” I force myself to focus on her words instead of how badly I want to thread our fingers together and see what other sounds I can draw from her.

“I might revert to discussing quarterly projections and avoiding feelings any second now.”

“Should I be worried?” Her voice drops to that dangerous whisper again. “Will you start spouting construction terminology and pretending this conversation never happened?”

“Definitely possible. Miranda always said I possessed a gift for compartmentalizing inconvenient emotions with the efficiency of a filing system designed by robots.”

“What did she mean?”

I consider how to explain the Miranda situation without sounding like a complete emotional disaster, all while trying to ignore how Michelle is slowly tracing patterns on my hand with her fingertip.

“She said I treated feelings exactly like paperwork—filed them away efficiently and only dealt with them during designated business hours according to a strict schedule.”

“Ah. The scheduled emotion approach.” Michelle’s smile turns predatory. “How very... systematic of you.”

“Very organized. Very practical. Completely useless for actual human relationships that require spontaneity and emotional availability.” I’m finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the conversation when she’s touching me like that—innocent contact that feels anything but innocent.

“But excellent for avoiding messy complications like genuine intimacy or authentic connection.”

“Exactly. Who needs deep emotional connection when you can have color-coded filing systems and detailed project timelines with built-in contingency plans for emotional emergencies?”

Michelle grins, and there’s something wicked in her expression that makes my chest tighten with want. “I think I understand why she left.”

“Ouch. But completely accurate and brutally honest.”

“She probably got tired of scheduling appointments to discuss your feelings.”

“Hey, those appointments were very efficient. We covered significant ground in our monthly relationship status meetings with detailed agendas and action items.”

“Monthly?” Her laugh is rich and warm and does terrible things to my self-control. “How romantic. Did you provide quarterly reports on your marriage with performance metrics and statistical analysis?”

“Don’t mock the quarterly reports. They included pie charts and visual aids.”

“Pie charts?” She’s openly laughing now, but not mockingly—there’s genuine affection in her amusement that makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

“Visual aids are crucial for effective communication. Miranda always said my presentations were very thorough and professionally formatted.”

“And completely missing the point of being married to someone instead of managing them like a business acquisition.”

“Well... yes. That too.”