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

TWO

GRAYSON

M y phone buzzes with a text from Amanda, but I can’t stop staring at the demolition paperwork that’s about to end everything with Michelle.

The marble countertop feels cold against my forearms as I lean over my phone.

Everything in this house feels cold lately—polished concrete floors, steel appliances, floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the view of the Intracoastal but never quite let in enough warmth.

It’s the kind of place that looks stunning in architectural magazines and feels like a morgue when you actually live in it.

Amanda: How did the coffee shop owner take the news?

Perfect. My sister possesses supernatural timing for witnessing my personal disasters. She’s probably already clearing her schedule to watch this social implosion unfold.

Me: Badly.

Amanda: Define badly.

Me: She wants to murder me with a coffee pot.

Amanda: Excellent. About time someone made you work for forgiveness instead of just showing up with your tragic backstory and expecting sympathy.

Amanda’s brand of sisterly support is watching me suffer while providing colorful commentary. She’s probably already planning to sell tickets to my public humiliation and donate the proceeds to Michelle’s legal defense fund.

The smart move would be driving to the chain coffee shop on the mainland. Zero risk of encountering business owners whose dreams I’ve crushed, plus they have those prefab pastries that taste like optimism died and was preserved in high fructose corn syrup.

I glance around my pristine living space—all clean lines and neutral colors that photograph well for real estate portfolios.

Miranda’s aesthetic choices still dominate: the hand-blown glass bowl by the front door, steel and glass furniture arranged for maximum visual impact, pendant lights hanging over the kitchen island like expensive jewelry.

It’s technically perfect but emotionally sterile, much like my approach to community development, apparently.

Instead, I grab my keys from the glass bowl by the door—one of Miranda’s design choices. Apparently, I’m committed to making poor decisions while surrounded by expensive home décor that judges me silently.

A sound erupts from my living room. Reggie, my twenty-three pound rooster, is announcing his political opinions to the morning news.

The open-concept living space echoes with Reggie’s proclamations.

He’s positioned himself on his custom perch—a designer cat tree modified for rooster proportions—with a clear view of both his territory and the flat-screen TV.

His food station occupies one corner: stainless steel bowls arranged on a rubber mat, organic feed in an airtight container, and the specialized water fountain the veterinarian insisted would improve his digestion.

The litter box situation required some engineering. Three discreet stations positioned throughout the house, designed to blend with the decor.

“Not now, Reggie,” I call, grabbing my keys. He fixes me with one beady eye, like he’s calculating how much damage he could do to my shin, but I’m already heading for the door.

The drive gives me exactly enough time to contemplate how I’m about to make everything worse.

Amanda: Still talking to the rooster instead of facing your problems?

How does she possess this supernatural ability to diagnose my avoidance strategies from three states away? It’s like she has an emotional radar to detect when I’m making terrible life choices.

Me: Reggie gives excellent advice.

Amanda: Go apologize to the woman properly. With actual human emotions instead a bunch of business mumbo jumbo. Try using words like ‘sorry’ and ‘I was wrong.’

I don’t respond because acknowledging Amanda’s superior emotional intelligence would violate decades of sibling rivalry. Also, she’s terrifyingly right about my tendency to hide behind professional jargon when my personal life implodes.

Twin Waves’ downtown looks deceptively peaceful this morning—Victorian storefronts gleaming in autumn sunlight, completely unaware of the emotional warfare about to unfold.

Twin Waves Brewing Co. sits perfectly positioned for maximum tourist foot traffic.

Prime oceanfront real estate with architectural charm that photographs beautifully for social media.

Everything that makes it impossible to preserve in our development plans without sacrificing the project’s financial viability.

Michelle’s car occupies her usual space beside the building. Through the windows, she moves with sharp efficiency, hair pulled back with severity.

Mrs. Hensley occupies her corner table like a general surveying the battlefield. Caroline nurses her coffee, studying her notebook.

My phone rings. Scott, my business partner.

“Please tell me you’re not stalking that coffee shop from your truck.”

“I’m conducting reconnaissance.”

“From across the street. Which makes you look completely unhinged.” I spot Scott’s Range Rover three spaces down.

“Word’s spreading fast. Half the town thinks you’ve lost your mind, and the other half is placing bets on how badly this ends.

I may have put twenty dollars on ‘complete emotional devastation with possible property damage.’”

Through the window, Michelle serves Mrs. Hensley with forced brightness while the older woman gestures dramatically. Caroline shoots concerned glances at Michelle’s tense posture.

“Council meeting’s Thursday,” Scott continues. “If she turns the whole town against us?—”

“I know.” Three years of planning, and it might all collapse because I couldn’t figure out how to handle one conversation properly.

“So what’s your brilliant plan for handling this catastrophic situation you’ve created?”

“I’m going to talk to her.”

Silence. “That’s possibly your worst idea since you rescued that psychotic rooster.”

“She deserves an explanation.”

“She deserved a heads-up before her world imploded. Now she deserves space to process without harassment from the person who just nuked her life.”

Scott’s assessment stings because it’s accurate. But avoiding Michelle feels cowardly, and I’ve spent enough time perfecting professional unavailability.

“I’ll be diplomatic.”

“You’ll be a complete disaster. Everything about your relationship with this woman has been one continuous accident.”

He disconnects, leaving me with the uncomfortable realization that I’ve built an entire friendship with Michelle while simultaneously planning the annihilation of everything she’s worked to create.

Smart move: drive away, handle this through lawyers and official channels.

Instead, I cross the street, apparently committed to making poor decisions.

The coffee shop door chime announces my entrance.

Morning bustle pauses. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Michelle stands behind the counter, holding a coffee pot like it’s a hand grenade.

“Mr. Reed.” Her professional smile could cause an ice age. “What can I get you this morning?”

The return to formal address hits hard. After seven years of “Good morning, Grayson” and casual conversations about weather and weekend plans, “Mr. Reed” sounds like she’s preparing to serve me with legal documents instead of coffee.

“Could we talk privately for a moment?”

“I’m working.” Her tone suggests this information should be obvious to anyone with functional brain cells, which apparently excludes me.

“After hours, then?”

The words taste like gravel in my mouth. My collar feels tighter than it did a second ago, heat gathering under the starch of my shirt. I press two fingers against my cufflink, adjusting a sleeve that doesn’t need adjusting.

Her eyes don’t soften. If anything, the temperature of the room drops another ten degrees under the chill of her silence.

A bead of sweat slides between my shoulder blades, irritating against starched cotton. I shift my weight, tapping a knuckle against the counter in what I hope looks casual but feels like a tell. My hand wants to drum out nerves I can’t afford to show.

For years I’ve prided myself on control—smooth, unshakable, unreadable. But right now, with Michelle watching me like I’m poison, I can’t seem to stop my body from betraying me in a hundred microscopic ways.

“I’m busy.”

The kind of busy that translates to “I would rather scrub toilets than spend five minutes in your presence.”

“Michelle, I know yesterday’s news was shocking?—”

“Was it?” She sets down the coffee pot with a control that suggests she’s fighting to keep from hurling it at my head.

“Because from my perspective, the shocking part isn’t discovering my building is scheduled for demolition.

It’s realizing that you’ve been lying to me for years while I served you coffee and treated you as a decent human being instead of the corporate villain you apparently are. ”

“I wasn’t lying.” The words emerge before my brain conducts quality control. “I was protecting confidential business information.”

“You know what the worst part is? I actually believed we were friends. Real friends. The kind who might give each other a heads-up about life-changing news.”

The accusation hits differently than her anger—quieter, more devastating. Her hands shake slightly, and I realize this isn’t about business ethics or development protocols. It’s about trust. About seven years of morning conversations that apparently meant something entirely different to each of us.

“We are friends,” I say quietly.

“Friends don’t let friends find out their world is ending from demolition notices.” Her voice cracks slightly. “What am I to you, Grayson? Really?”

The question hangs between us, demanding honesty I’m not sure I can give. Because the truth is uncomfortable.

“You’re...” I struggle for words that don’t sound like corporate damage control. “You’re important to me.”

“Important enough to protect me from decisions that would destroy my life?”

“Important enough that this conversation is killing me.”