Page 19 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

TEN

GRAYSON

“ C ock-a-doodle-doooo!”

I jolt awake to find Reggie perched on my nightstand like a feathered alarm clock from the bad place, delivering his morning proclamation at five-thirty in the morning. But this isn’t his usual dawn patrol—this is personal. His beady eyes hold smug judgment.

“Seriously, Reg?” I mumble, but he just ruffles his feathers.

Because yes, I was dreaming about Michelle. Again. Dream-Michelle was fixing my tie while explaining municipal zoning ordinances in that patient voice she reserves for particularly dense customers, and somehow even bureaucratic building codes sounded riveting when she was saying them.

Real-Michelle fixed my tie yesterday. Real-Michelle stepped so close I could count the freckles across her nose. Real-Michelle bit her lip like she was defusing a bomb instead of just untangling basic menswear.

I was married to Miranda for three years, and I’d forgotten that a simple touch could feel more intimate than anything we ever shared. Miranda always said I was emotionally unavailable. Maybe she was right—maybe I just needed someone worth being available for.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The actual alarm clock joins Reggie’s morning torture session, and I swear my rooster looks pleased with the stereo assault on my sanity.

“Get it together, Reed.” I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. The guy staring back looks like he got hit by a truck loaded with confused feelings and small-town politics.

My phone buzzes with a text from Scott: Committee meeting tonight. Try not to stare at her like a lovesick teenager.

Right. The meeting where Michelle and I will spend three hours in the same room, pretending yesterday’s tie incident didn’t change everything between us. Professional collaboration with the woman who’s been taking over way too much of my headspace.

I shower, shave, and pick a shirt that hopefully won’t need emergency fashion help. Twenty minutes later, I’m checking my tie in the hallway mirror like I’m preparing to deliver a dissertation.

Perfectly straight. Professional. Zero Michelle assistance required.

The irony tastes bitter.

T win Waves Brewing Co. sits on the same corner it always has, but walking through the door triggers muscle memory that has nothing to do with needing caffeine.

Michelle’s behind the counter, hair twisted into a messy bun that makes my fingers itch to pull it free, wearing a burgundy long- sleeved t-shirt that hugs her curves in ways that should be illegal during business hours.

She glances up when I enter, and her professional smile falters for exactly two seconds—long enough for me to see heat flash in her eyes before she wrestles it back into perfect customer service mode.

“Morning,” I approach the counter, hoping I look like a normal human being instead of a man whose dreams are filled with the taste of her mouth.

“Morning.” She reaches for the espresso cups, and I catch the slight tremor in her hands. Good. I’m not the only one affected by whatever this is. “The usual?”

“Please.”

We’re both performing politeness with Oscar-worthy intensity, pretending yesterday’s tie incident didn’t happen.

Pretending she didn’t have her hands pressed against my chest while I stood there experiencing a complete systems malfunction.

Pretending I didn’t almost kiss her in broad daylight like some kind of madman.

“Nice tie,” she says quietly, and there’s something dangerous in her voice that makes my pulse kick. “Very... straight.”

The word ‘straight’ shouldn’t sound like sin, but from her lips, it does.

“Thanks. I managed it myself this time.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.

“I can see that.” Her eyes meet mine, and for one electric second, I see her remembering exactly how it felt to straighten it for me. How close we were. How her breath hitched when I looked down at her like she was something precious.

The espresso machine hisses and gurgles while she works, and I try not to catalog every tiny movement—how she taps the portafilter, checks the extraction time, adjusts the grind with focused attention. She genuinely cares about getting every detail right.

“So.” I clear my throat. “Big meeting tonight.”

“Committee meeting.” She doesn’t look up from steaming milk. “Should be productive.”

“Michelle—”

“Grayson, please.” Her eyes finally meet mine, and the vulnerability there hits me hard. “Can we just... not? Just for this morning? Before everything gets complicated again?”

She’s right. Tonight we’ll sit across from each other at a conference table, discussing development modifications and community impact stuff. Tonight we’ll pretend yesterday didn’t change anything between us.

And I’ll try not to remember the way she felt in my arms, how her body curved into mine like we were made to fit together.

But right now, we’re just Michelle and Grayson. Coffee shop owner and customer. Two people who are rapidly discovering that comfort and attraction make a combustible combination that could burn down everything we’ve both worked to build.

“Just this morning,” I agree, my voice rough with restraint.

Her smile—the first real one since yesterday’s wardrobe crisis—transforms her entire face and sends heat shooting straight through me. She slides my espresso across the counter, and when our fingers brush during the handoff, the contact burns like a brand.

“Have a good day, Grayson,” she says, and there’s something in the way she says my name that makes it sound like a promise and a warning all at once.

“You too.”

I should leave. Walk out, get in the truck, spend the day reviewing committee materials instead of lingering by the counter. Instead, I watch her interact with other customers, wondering when morning coffee became the highlight of my day for reasons that have nothing to do with caffeine.

Mrs. Spencer shuffles up to order her usual decaf with extra foam, shooting me a look that suggests the entire town has opinions about whatever’s happening between Michelle and me.

“Morning, Mrs. Spencer.”

“Morning, dear. You look very put-together today. That tie is perfectly straight.”

Michelle’s quick smile behind the espresso machine sends warmth spreading through my chest despite my growing anxiety about tonight’s meeting.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Of course, yesterday was quite the sight. Michelle taking such good care of you. Very sweet, very... intimate.”

Michelle’s face goes pink, and she suddenly becomes laser-focused on steaming milk with the intensity of a brain surgeon.

“It was just a tie emergency,” I say weakly.

“Oh, honey.” Mrs. Spencer pats my arm with motherly authority. “In seventy-three years on this earth, I’ve never seen a tie emergency that romantic. You should ask her out properly.”

“Mrs. Spencer?—”

“Life’s too short for perfect timing, dear. Sometimes you have to create your own opportunities.”

She takes her coffee and settles at her usual table by the window, leaving me standing at the counter feeling targeted by Twin Waves’ unofficial matchmaking committee.

“Sorry about that,” Michelle says quietly. “She means well.”

“It’s fine. She’s not wrong about the tie situation being...” I search for the right word. “Unusual.”

Michelle’s smile carries a hint of shyness that makes my stomach do gymnastics. “That’s one way to describe it.”

“How would you describe it?”

She considers this for a long moment, and I recognize my own confusion reflected in her expression. The same awareness that everything shifted between us yesterday, making tonight’s committee meeting infinitely more complicated.

“I’d call it dangerous,” she says finally.

“Dangerous how?”

“Because I liked taking care of you.” Her voice drops to something barely above a whisper, intimate and devastating.

“And that’s definitely not supposed to be part of our professional relationship.

But heaven help me, Grayson, when you looked at me like I was the only person in the world who could fix something broken.

..” She trails off, her cheeks flushing pink.

The admission hits me like a physical blow. She liked taking care of me. Which means yesterday wasn’t just wishful thinking or delayed reaction to a marriage that never made me feel anything close to this intensity.

“Michelle—” I start, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t.” Her hand comes up between us, not quite touching my chest but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her palm.

“Because if you say whatever you’re about to say, I might do something completely unprofessional.

Like climb over this counter and find out if you taste as good as you smell. ”

My breath catches. The espresso machine hisses behind her, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and the confession she just made.

The one that confirms every dangerous thought I’ve been having about her mouth, her hands, what it would feel like to have her pressed against me without any pretense of professional distance.

“That would be...” I swallow hard, my voice coming out like gravel. “Extremely unprofessional.”

“Completely inappropriate,” she agrees, but she doesn’t step back. If anything, she sways closer, and now I can see the pulse racing at her throat, can smell her perfume mixing with the coffee and making my head spin.

“People would definitely talk.”

“They’re already talking.” Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from reaching for her. “Mrs. Spencer texted me this morning. There’s apparently a betting pool.”

“About what?” My voice is barely functioning.

“About when we’re going to stop pretending we don’t want each other and just give in to this thing that’s been building between us for seven years.”

She’s been feeling this too. This magnetic pull that I’ve been telling myself was one-sided professional courtesy.