Page 29 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

FOURTEEN

GRAYSON

T hree days since Michelle kissed me in her coffee shop, and I can’t stop thinking about the way her mouth felt against mine. Scott keeps shooting me looks across the office like I’ve been replaced by an alien species that actually experiences emotions.

“You’re humming again,” he says, sliding blueprints across my desk. “During permit reviews. It’s deeply unsettling.”

“I don’t hum.”

“Yesterday you hummed through the entire investor call. While discussing foundation costs.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “In fifteen years of partnership, you’ve acknowledged music exactly never. Now you’re practically a walking soundtrack.”

I set down my coffee cup harder than necessary. “The project’s on schedule. Success breeds optimism.”

“This isn’t about permits.” Scott’s voice carries that tone he uses when he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “You disappeared at the midpoint celebration, came back looking like you’d been struck by lightning, and now you’re rescheduling concrete pours around book club meetings.”

The memory hits without warning—Michelle’s hands fisted in my shirt, her breath catching as I backed her against the counter, the taste of coffee and possibility on her lips. Three days, and I still feel the phantom weight of her body pressed against mine.

“Community relations are important.”

“Community relations.” Scott snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it when you stare at her coffee shop for ten minutes before walking in?”

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting I’ve become pathetically obsessed with a woman who should be my professional adversary, the intercom buzzes.

“Mr. Reed? Your sister’s on line two.”

I gesture for privacy, but Scott just grins and settles deeper into his chair. Clearly, my romantic crisis has become his primary source of entertainment.

“Amanda.”

“You sound different.” My sister’s voice carries that particular blend of legal precision and sisterly nosiness that makes me want to hang up. “Happy different. When’s the last time you sounded happy?”

“The project’s progressing well?—”

“I’m not talking about work, and we both know it.” Papers shuffle in the background. “Who is she?”

Sisters possess an unnatural ability to detect romantic developments across state lines. “There’s no she.”

“Grayson Reed. You called me last month to debate grout ratios for twenty minutes. Today you sound like you remember what joy feels like.” Her voice takes on that patient tone she uses with difficult witnesses.

“Michelle.” Her name escapes before I can stop it, softer than I intended.

“The coffee shop owner? The one who makes ‘exceptional espresso’ and ‘maintains professional service standards’?”

Have I been talking about Michelle for months without realizing it? “We started as adversaries. She opposed the development.”

“And now?”

Now I can’t walk past her shop without my pulse quickening. Now I find excuses to attend every committee meeting just to watch her argue with passionate intensity that makes my chest tight. Now I lie awake replaying the way she said my name against my mouth.

“Now it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how? Did she challenge your color-coding system?”

“She made me realize that some things matter more than profit margins.” The admission feels dangerous, like confessing to a fundamental character flaw. “She makes me want to be worth her attention.”

Amanda’s silence stretches long enough that I wonder if the call dropped. When she speaks again, her voice is gentle. “Grayson, you already are. You just needed someone who could see past your emotional barricades.”

In the background, a child’s voice pipes up with startling clarity: “Mommy, why does Uncle Grayson sound weird? Did he eat bad milk?”

“No, sweetheart,” Amanda’s muffled response carries parental exhaustion. “Uncle Grayson is having feelings.”

“Eww! That’s yucky!”

“Very yucky,” Amanda agrees into the phone. “But the good kind of yucky.”

After I hang up, Scott eyes me with undisguised amusement. “So. Feelings, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Never. This is the most entertainment I’ve had since you tried to schedule spontaneity into our project timeline.” He pauses, expression shifting to something almost serious. “She’s good for you, you know. You’ve been less of a control freak since she started arguing with you.”

My phone buzzes before I can respond to that assessment.

Jessica: Emergency book club meeting tonight. Michelle said you know about wine. Help?

I stare at the screen. Michelle told Jessica I know about wine? My expertise extends to “red with steak, white with fish, and expensive when trying to impress.”

Me: Define “know about wine.” I can identify colors.

Jessica: Perfect. Wine shop in an hour?

Scott watches me type with barely contained laughter. “Wine consultation? Please tell me you’re not going to explain viticulture using architectural principles.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because last week you gave the espresso machine a lecture about optimal extraction pressure.”

“That machine needed guidance.”

“It’s a machine, Grayson. It doesn’t need your approval.” He shakes his head. “Just... try to talk about wine like a normal person. Avoid construction metaphors.”

An hour later, I’m standing in Twin Waves Wine & Spirits, watching Jessica study labels with the intensity of a girl preparing for comprehensive exams.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” she says when I approach. “I’ve been staring at these bottles, and they all look the same.”

“They’re definitely not the same.” I pause, realizing how little I actually know about wine beyond basic categories. “Though I’m not entirely qualified to explain the differences.”

“Michelle said you have sophisticated taste.”

Michelle is optimistic about my qualifications in numerous areas. “What’s the occasion?”

“Romance.” Jessica’s grin is pure mischief. “The ladies are excited about recent developments in local romantic drama. You two have provided excellent entertainment.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “We’re not entertainment.”

“You absolutely are. Mrs. Hensley witnessed the coffee shop incident and immediately called her entire contact list. Which is basically the whole town.”

Of course she did. Privacy in Twin Waves is purely theoretical.

“So,” Jessica continues, examining a bottle with scientific focus, “what’s your wine philosophy?”

“I prefer red. Michelle prefers white. When in doubt, expensive.”

“See? You do know about wine.” She selects a bottle with impressive confidence. “This one’s perfect. Elegant without being pretentious, sophisticated enough to impress, not so expensive we feel guilty drinking it.”

The cashier, a college student with paint under his fingernails, grins at us. “Wine for the book club meeting? My neighbor Hazel’s in that group. She’s been talking about the romance between the coffee lady and the grumpy developer.”

“I’m not grumpy,” I protest automatically.

“You’re totally grumpy,” Jessica and the kid say in unison.

“But in a good way,” he adds. “Hazel says grumpy guys make the best boyfriends once they figure out how feelings work.”

Outside the wine shop, Jessica turns to me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You know Michelle talks about you constantly, right?”

My pulse jumps. “She does?”

“Your coffee order. Your schedule. The way you actually listen when people talk at meetings.” Jessica pauses. “She notices everything about you.”

“I notice things about her too.”

“Good. Because that woman has been waiting her whole life for someone to really see her. Don’t make her wait much longer.”

The words carry weight I’m not sure I understand, but before I can ask for clarification, my phone buzzes.

Michelle: How’s wine shopping going? Please tell me you’re not explaining grape varietals using construction terminology.

She knows me well enough to predict my potential for social disaster. The realization is both unsettling and intoxicating.

Me: Jessica prevented architectural wine metaphors. Your friends are protective.

Michelle: They’re protective of more than my wine education. Fair warning.

Me: Should I be concerned about interrogation techniques?

Michelle: Only if your intentions aren’t serious.

The directness stops me cold. Michelle doesn’t dance around difficult topics or hint at what she means. She asks direct questions and expects honest answers.

Me: My intentions are serious.

Michelle: How serious?

I stare at the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How do I quantify the way she’s rewired my entire nervous system? How do I explain that three days ago, I thought I understood attraction, and now I realize I’d never experienced it before?

Me: Foundation-level serious.

Michelle: You just used a construction metaphor about your feelings.

Me: It’s accurate.

Michelle: It’s adorable. See you tomorrow.

Adorable. She finds my emotional incompetence adorable instead of exhausting. Miranda used to sigh whenever I tried to explain feelings using technical terminology. Michelle teases me about it.

The difference matters more than it should.

Back home, I pour myself a glass of the wine Jessica didn’t select—a bottle I’ve owned for two years without opening—and try to process the day’s revelations. My phone sits on the kitchen counter, silent but somehow electric with the memory of Michelle’s texts.

Three days since everything shifted, and I still can’t predict what happens next.

Michelle kissed me in her coffee shop, surrounded by the scent of fresh grounds and the warm glow of afternoon light filtering through windows.

She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and now we’re navigating territory neither of us mapped out.