Page 22 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

ELEVEN

MICHELLE

T he coffee shop after closing becomes our private disaster zone.

Permit papers scatter between us, soft jazz drifts from the speakers, and October’s chill sneaks through windows that haven’t seen decent weather stripping since I moved back to Twin Waves.

Perfect. I’ve created the ideal storm of inappropriate professional boundaries and romantic ambiance.

Brilliant planning, Michelle. Invite your supposed enemy to an intimate committee meeting where dim lighting screams romance instead of city planning.

“The parking stuff is our biggest problem,” Grayson says, his pen tapping against the table in rhythm with the bass line.

The sound hypnotizes me. His business-focused intensity softens when he’s actually problem-solving instead of giving speeches to frustrated business owners who might murder him with coffee equipment.

I catch myself staring at the way his jaw tightens when he concentrates and quickly redirect my attention to my notes.

“Fourteen spaces,” I finish, because I’ve run these numbers obsessively since the demolition notice arrived. “Which explains why half my customers drive around the block three times before giving up and going to the drive-through on Highway 9.”

“Exactly. But if we could show that most of your customers walk or bike here...” He glances up from his calculations, catching me mid-stare. Heat crawls up my neck. “You’ve been keeping track of who comes in, haven’t you?”

My cheeks burn. “I may have developed a spreadsheet habit since getting my eviction notice.”

His eyebrows rise. “How detailed?”

“Color-coded by time of day, weather, and seasons. With separate sections for tourists versus locals.”

“Separate sections.”

“And another sheet tracking what people drink based on age. Retirees want medium roast before ten but switch to dark roast after their afternoon beach walks. Tourists ordering fancy seasonal drinks take pictures of their coffee from seventeen different angles.”

Now he’s staring at me as if I’ve confessed to conducting secret spy missions on unsuspecting caffeine addicts. Which isn’t entirely wrong.

“That’s...” He pauses, then a slow smile spreads across his face. My stomach performs an unauthorized flip. “Actually brilliant. Do you know how long people stay based on what they order?”

“Of course. Espresso drinkers are in and out in eight minutes. Latte people hang around for twenty-three minutes, thirty-seven if they’re reading.”

Grayson leans back, and his professional mask slips completely. He’s looking at me as if I’ve solved the world’s greatest mystery instead of admitting to obsessive people-watching.

“Michelle,” he says slowly, “you’ve basically done a complete traffic study without realizing it.”

“I’ve done a survival study. There’s a difference.”

“Is there? This could prove we need fewer parking spaces based on how people actually use your shop instead of some made-up formula.”

Excitement transforms his controlled expression, and my chest tightens with dangerous hope. “You think this could help?”

“I think this could change everything.” His hand reaches across the table, covering mine before either of us realizes the movement. “This is exactly what we need to show you’re part of the community, not a problem for it.”

The contact sends electricity shooting through my nervous system. His hand is warm and slightly rough from construction work, and for a moment I forget how to form coherent thoughts about city planning or anything requiring brain function.

We both freeze.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back as if I’ve burned him. “I got excited about the numbers.”

“Right. The numbers.” I flex my fingers, which still tingle. “Very exciting numbers.”

We sit in the aftermath of that brief contact, both pretending it didn’t shift everything between us, while Miles Davis plays and my coffee shop shrinks around us.

“The historical district rules have more wiggle room than I expected,” he says, sliding a document toward me with careful precision, avoiding any chance of contact.

I reach for the papers. Our fingers brush in an ordinary document exchange. Instead, the contact jolts through my nervous system—nothing to do with static electricity, everything to do with the fact that Grayson Reed has beautiful hands and I’m losing professional composure one permit at a time.

He jerks back as if shocked. I’m not the only one affected.

“Right,” I manage, focusing determinedly on city language instead of his rolled sleeves revealing distractingly muscular forearms. “Old building rules can work with new stuff.”

He leans closer to point out specific language, and I catch his scent—cologne mixed with coffee and whatever indefinable essence makes my brain abandon all pretense of professional focus.

“Michelle?”

“Hmm?” I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same sentence while my mind wandered into completely inappropriate territory involving the way his voice sounds when he says my name.

“You look distracted.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Long day. Tuesday’s coffee crowd included a woman who spent twenty minutes explaining why my autumn spice blend lacks ‘adequate nutmeg complexity.’”

His mouth quirks into that almost-smile I’ve learned to watch for, and my heart skips. “Sounds rough.”

“She brought her entire garden club for a taste test. Apparently I’m ‘promising but needs work’ in my seasonal flavor development. Then they argued whether my decorative gourds represent autumn vibes or suggest ‘rustic confusion.’”

Now he’s actually grinning, and the transformation devastates my cardiovascular system. Grayson Reed has a lethal smile when he forgets to be professional.

“Rustic confusion?”

“Their exact words. I’ve been running a rustic confusion establishment without knowing it.”

“I’ll try the blend tomorrow and give you a second opinion,” he says. “Though I should warn you, I can only tell the difference between ‘coffee’ and ‘really good coffee.’ I’m not qualified to judge nutmeg complexity.”

“The most honest feedback I’ve gotten all week.”

We’re both laughing now, and the charged atmosphere between us has shifted from professional tension to dangerous warmth. The kind that makes me forget we’re supposed to be on opposite sides of the biggest fight in Twin Waves history.

I should redirect us back to city planning. Should maintain professional boundaries. Should stop noticing how his eyes crinkle when he laughs or how his hair falls across his forehead when he’s genuinely amused.

Instead, I hear myself asking, “What’s the weirdest feedback you’ve gotten on a building project?”

His expression shifts, becoming thoughtful. “A town in Georgia once demanded that our shopping center include a duck crossing because the local ducks had been using that route to the pond for ‘approximately forever’ according to one very passionate city council member.”

“Did you include the duck crossing?”

“We included the duck crossing. Complete with traffic signals and warning signs.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“The ducks ignore it completely. They cross wherever they want, usually during rush hour for maximum traffic chaos.”

I laugh until my sides hurt, imagining Grayson Reed, serious development professional, designing traffic lights for rebellious waterfowl.

“So you’ve been dealing with small-town weirdness longer than just Twin Waves.”

“Apparently so. Though I draw the line at traffic signals for raccoons, no matter how convincing the argument.”

“Good to know you have standards.”

“Professional standards,” he corrects, but his tone is teasing. “Personal standards are apparently more flexible, considering I’m sitting in a coffee shop after hours talking about city rules with a woman who color-codes customer behavior patterns.”

“Hey, those patterns are scientifically valid observations.”

“I’m sure they are. I’m also sure most city planners don’t have access to data about tourist photography habits related to beverage complexity.”

The conversation flows as if we’ve been friends for years instead of professional enemies.

I relax in ways I haven’t since David’s betrayal, sharing stories about customer interactions while Grayson offers tales of building challenges in communities where historical societies have more power than city councils.

We’re so caught up in conversation that when he reaches for his coffee cup, I do the same at the exact moment. Our hands collide in midair, sending his cup sideways and mine straight into my lap.

“Oh no!” I jump up, but the damage is done. Coffee soaks through my jeans, and I’m mortified. “I’m such a disaster.”

“Stay right there,” Grayson says, already moving. His voice carries an edge of command that does alarming things to my pulse. “Don’t move.”

He disappears behind my counter as if he owns the place, returning with dish towels and that competent air he gets during emergencies.

“It’s fine, really,” I protest, but he’s already kneeling beside my chair, carefully blotting the coffee from the worst spots.

The position puts his face level with my thighs, and I stop breathing entirely.

He’s so close I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, can count the faint lines that appear when he concentrates.

His hands move across the damp fabric, and every brush of his fingers sends heat racing through my veins.

“Michelle, stop squirming.”

The low command makes my stomach flip. There’s authority in his voice I’ve never heard before, and it does dangerous things to my self-control.

“This is so embarrassing,” I manage.

“Why? Accidents happen.” He glances up, catching me staring down at him with what must be a completely inappropriate expression. His hands still against my leg. “Though if you keep looking at me that way, I’m going to forget what I’m doing and why I shouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking.”

My breath catches. “Looking at you in what way?”