Page 30 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

The wine tastes expensive and unfamiliar.

I should be reviewing tomorrow’s schedule, confirming contractor meetings and double-checking permit applications.

Instead, I’m sitting in my kitchen, replaying text messages and trying to figure out when Michelle Lawson became the most important part of every day.

My phone buzzes.

Michelle: Jessica texted. Apparently you were “surprisingly helpful” with wine selection. She’s impressed.

Me: I aim to exceed expectations.

Michelle: You succeed more often than you realize.

The conversation dies there, but my phone feels warm in my hand, charged with possibilities I’m not quite ready to name.

Tomorrow I’ll see her at the coffee shop, probably serving customers with that genuine smile that makes my chest tight.

I’ll order my usual double espresso, try not to stare at her mouth, and pretend I’m not completely obsessed with a woman who should be my professional opponent.

Three days since Michelle kissed me, and I’m still discovering the ways she’s changed everything I thought I knew about wanting someone.

This is going to be a problem.

B y the time I reach Sanders’ Hardware, the sun’s hanging low and my head’s no clearer than when I started.

The bell chimes as I push through the door, and Jack Sanders looks up from the power tool aisle with a knowing grin.

He’s got a measuring tape in one hand and what looks like miniature hinges scattered across the counter.

“Grayson Reed, as I live and breathe. You look like a man who’s been thinking too hard about something that can’t be fixed with tools.”

“Need a new socket wrench set.” I browse the tool display, avoiding Jack’s too-perceptive gaze. “The old one’s stripped.”

“Uh-huh. And this has nothing to do with a certain coffee shop owner who’s got the whole town talking?

” He holds up a tiny hinge, examining it in the light.

“I’m building Ellen a mermaid dollhouse.

I’m trying to figure out how to make miniature cabinet doors that actually open and close.

Five-year-olds have very specific engineering requirements. ”

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting my complete emotional upheaval, the bell chimes again. Brett Collins walks in, looking equally restless.

“Jack. Grayson.” Brett nods, heading straight for the fastener display. “You wouldn’t happen to know where they keep three-inch wood screws? Amber’s got me building custom shelving for the restaurant, and I’m discovering I underestimated the project scope.”

“Aisle three,” Jack says, setting down the miniature hinge. “Though I’m sensing this isn’t really about hardware for any of us.”

Brett and I exchange glances. There’s something distinctly uncomfortable about being psychoanalyzed by two men who’ve clearly figured out the whole relationship thing.

“Speak for yourself,” Brett mutters, but he’s not browsing screws anymore.

“Right.” Jack settles against the counter, dollhouse hardware forgotten.

“So Grayson’s got his motorcycle out for therapeutic purposes, Brett’s volunteering for carpentry projects that somehow require multiple trips, and I’m here trying to engineer working plumbing for a dollhouse because my stepdaughter believes mermaid houses need functional bathrooms. Anyone see a pattern? ”

“Coincidence,” I say.

“Necessity,” Brett adds. “The shelves are structurally required.”

Jack and Brett exchange a look that carries the weight of shared experience. These are men who’ve been through whatever emotional chaos I’m currently experiencing and came out the other side with contentment.

“You know what your problem is?” Jack asks, picking up the measuring tape and tugging it absently. “You’re trying to engineer your way through feelings. Like love is a mechanical problem that needs the right tools and proper technique.”

“That’s not—” I start.

“It absolutely is,” Brett interrupts, and there’s gentle understanding in his voice. “I did the same thing. Thought if I could just build enough shelves and fix enough problems, Amber would see I was worth keeping around.”

“And?” I ask despite myself.

“Turns out women don’t need you to solve them or fix them or prove your professional competence,” Jack says, holding up two identical-looking miniature hinges. “They need you to show up and be honest about what you want.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?” The question escapes before I can stop it.

Jack’s expression softens. “Then you’re lying to yourself. Because from where I’m sitting, you know exactly what you want. You’re just scared to admit it because wanting something means you might not get it.”

My phone buzzes. Michelle’s name on the screen makes my pulse jump.

Michelle: Emergency at the shop. Espresso machine is making concerning noises. Any chance you could take a look?

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Professional courtesy or transparent excuse to see her?

Jack reads my expression. “Emergency repair call?”

“Espresso machine malfunction.”

“On a Saturday evening. How convenient.” His grin is knowing. “You going?”

“It’s a legitimate mechanical problem.”

“I’m sure it is.” Brett’s voice carries patience. “Just like half the projects Amber comes up with that somehow require my specific expertise.”

Jack holds up the miniature hinges. “Just like Ellen needing a dollhouse with working plumbing.”

“That’s different. Restaurant equipment has specific safety requirements?—”

“Grayson.” Jack’s voice cuts through my protest with the authority of a man who’s successfully navigated these waters.

“She asked you to come fix her espresso machine. You’re standing in my dad’s hardware store, holding a socket wrench you don’t actually need, because you’ve been riding around town trying to process feelings that don’t require mechanical intervention. ”

“Your point?”

“My point is, stop overthinking it.” Brett leans against the counter, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of the man he must have been before he figured out how to be happy.

“Go help her with the espresso machine. Stay for coffee. Talk to her like she’s a person you enjoy spending time with instead of a problem you need to solve. ”

“What if I mess it up?”

“You will,” Jack says matter-of-factly, but his voice is kind. “Everyone does. The trick is messing it up honestly instead of messing it up while pretending you’re not interested.”

“Reassuring.”

“Better than spending the next month riding around the island in circles trying to convince yourself you don’t care,” Brett adds. “Trust me. That approach doesn’t work.”

The older man behind the counter clears his throat. “Boys, I’m closing in five minutes. You buying anything, or just using my store for group therapy?”

Jack grins at his father, pocketing the miniature hinges. “Dad, meet Grayson Reed. He’s having feelings about Michelle Lawson.”

“Heaven help him,” Mr. Sanders mutters, but there’s amusement in his voice. “Feelings are expensive. Usually require tools you don’t actually need and projects that take three times longer than necessary.”

As we walk outside, Brett turns to me. “You know what changed everything for me? I stopped trying to earn my place in Amber’s life and just started showing up as myself. Turns out that was enough.”

Jack nods, jingling the miniature hinges in his pocket. “Same here. The day I stopped trying to be impressive and started being honest was the day everything clicked into place.”

I look at my phone, Michelle’s message glowing on the screen. Espresso machine emergency on a Saturday evening. She could call any repair service in town.

She called me.

“Yeah,” I say, swinging my leg over the Harley. “I’m going.”

“Good luck,” Brett calls out.

“You won’t need it,” Jack adds with the confidence of a man who knows how this story ends. “Just be yourself. It’s worked out pretty well for the rest of us.”

The bike roars to life, and I head back toward town, toward Michelle, toward whatever comes next. The salt air no longer carries the phantom scent of coffee—it carries possibility.

This is still going to be a problem.

But maybe it’s the kind of problem worth having.