Page 24 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)
“Thank you,” I say finally, the waves crashing on the shore beyond the dunes. “For helping tonight. You didn’t have to?—”
“Yes, I did.” His voice carries quiet certainty that makes my chest tighten. “You needed help, and I was there. That’s how it works.”
The simple statement hits harder than any grand gesture could. David never helped with anything unless it directly benefited him. Three years together, and I can’t recall a single instance of assistance without strings attached.
“Michelle?” Grayson’s voice pulls me back to the present. “You look like you’re processing something complicated.”
I laugh despite myself. “I was thinking about how long it’s been since anyone just helped because they could.”
His expression shifts, becoming softer around the edges. “That says more about the people in your past than it does about tonight.”
“I know. It’s just...” I trail off, unsure how to explain that his simple kindness has completely upended my understanding of what partnership could look like.
“Just what?”
“I’m out of practice with people who don’t keep score.”
“Well, helping Jessica tonight was more satisfying than arguing about building codes.”
“Even more satisfying than designing duck crossings?”
“The duck crossing was professionally satisfying. Tonight was personally satisfying.”
The distinction hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications neither of us seems ready to address directly. Personally satisfying. As in, he enjoyed spending time with me doing things that had nothing to do with development projects or committee obligations.
I turn to face him fully and realize he’s closer than I thought. Close enough to count the faint lines that appear when he smiles.
The air in the small space feels charged, electric with possibility and months of suppressed attraction finally bubbling to the surface.
“This is complicated,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the crash of the waves.
“Very complicated,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans slightly closer, and I catch that intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with coffee and something uniquely him.
“The committee, the development, what everyone expects...”
“I know.” His voice has dropped to that rough whisper that does dangerous things to my pulse.
“Everyone’s counting on me to fight this project.”
“I know that too.”
“And you’re...” I can barely get the words out because he’s so close now that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“The enemy,” he finishes with a rueful smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “At least officially.”
“Officially,” I repeat, and somehow we’ve moved even closer together without either of us making a conscious decision to do so.
The space between us electrifies, charged with months of tension and argument and the slow-burning realization that we’ve been fighting the wrong battle entirely.
His presence fills my senses—the low timber of his voice, the way his eyes darken as they study my face, the almost imperceptible way he leans toward me as if drawn by some invisible force.
His hand comes up to touch my cheek, fingers barely grazing my skin, and I lean into the contact without thinking. My eyes flutter closed at the gentle pressure, at the callused warmth of his fingertips against my cheek.
“What are we doing?” I ask, opening my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“I have no idea,” he admits, his voice rough with an emotion I’m afraid to name.
“But I’ve been thinking about you every time I drive past your shop.
Every morning when I don’t stop for coffee because I’m afraid of what it means that I want to see you that badly.
And especially every time we’re in the same room pretending to argue about permits when all I can think about is. ..”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but his thumb traces a gentle path across my cheekbone, and I don’t need him to. The unspoken words hang in the air between us, heavy with promise and possibility.
“Grayson—” I start, but my voice comes out breathless and wanting.
“I know this changes everything. I know it makes both our lives infinitely more complicated. But Michelle, I can’t keep pretending that I don’t?—”
My phone erupts with my mother’s ringtone—”Sweet Caroline”—causing us to spring apart as if we’ve been electrocuted.
The spell breaks completely, leaving us staring at each other across the suddenly vast space of my car’s interior, both breathing hard as if we’ve just run a marathon.
“I should...” I gesture helplessly at the phone, which continues to belt out Neil Diamond with cheerful persistence.
“Yeah. You should.”
I answer on the fourth ring, attempting to compose myself while my mother launches into detailed explanations of some emergency involving my father, the neighbor’s cat, and what sounds like a significant quantity of Christmas decorations that have apparently achieved consciousness and declared war on suburban tranquility.
By the time I hang up, Grayson has exited the truck, walked over to the outdoor seating area, and is gazing out at the sea. As I approach, he stands and walks toward me, tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides.
“Everything all right?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“Family emergency. Dad declared war on the neighbor’s cat, and Mom needs diplomatic intervention.
” I fumble with my keys, hyperaware of how close he’s standing, of the way the streetlight catches the gold in his hair.
“Nothing life-threatening, just small-town family dynamics and seasonal decoration warfare.”
“Sounds about right for this time of year. Christmas decorations bring out strong emotions in people.”
We stand there for a moment, neither quite sure how to navigate this new territory we’ve stumbled into. The almost-kiss stretches between us like an unanswered question.
“About earlier—” I start.
“We should talk,” he says at the same time.
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” He nods, then steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “But Michelle? Tonight... what happened with Jessica, working together to help someone who needed it... that felt right.”
“It did,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Whatever this is between us, whatever we decide to do about it, I want you to know that.” His hand comes up as if he’s going to touch my face again, then drops back to his side.
“And I want you to know that I don’t think wanting to help your community and finding creative solutions have to be opposite things. ”
He turns to leave, then stops and looks back at me. “Good night, Michelle.”
“Good night.”
I watch him drive away, then lean against my coffee shop door and attempt to process what just happened.
Three hours ago, we were professional adversaries working on city paperwork.
Now we’re... what exactly? My lips still tingle from the almost-kiss, and my cheek burns where his fingers touched my skin.
Inside, I flip on the lights and survey the evidence of our evening: permit applications scattered across customer tables, two empty coffee cups, coffee stains on my jeans, and the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with my shop’s signature autumn blend.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jessica.
Jessica: So... want to explain why the enemy just spent his evening rescuing romance novels?
I stare at the message for a long moment, then type back: It’s complicated.
Her response is immediate: The best ones always are. Coffee tomorrow? I need details.
I look around and spot Grayson’s jacket draped over the chair he vacated when Jessica called. Navy wool, expensive but not flashy, with the kind of subtle quality that suggests a person who values durability over trends.
I pick up the jacket and hold it close, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne that clings to the fabric.
Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what this means for the development project, for the community committee, for our carefully maintained professional opposition.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to explain to Jessica why I’m developing feelings for the man whose success depends on my failure.
Tonight, I’m going to remember the way his voice went rough when he almost said he couldn’t stop thinking about me, the gentle pressure of his fingers against my cheek, and the fact that when a person I cared about needed help, he didn’t hesitate to offer it.
Jessica’s right. The best things are always complicated. And complicated doesn’t have to mean impossible.