Page 31 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

FIFTEEN

MICHELLE

S aturday evening, and I’m standing in my coffee shop holding Grayson’s jacket like some kind of love-struck teenager. The espresso machine is making sounds that suggest it’s plotting my professional demise, but all I can focus on is the way his cologne clings to the fabric.

Cedar and sawdust. I lift the jacket to my face before I can stop myself—just for a second—and breathe in the memory of standing too close to him, of his hands steady on mine.

“This is pathetic,” I mutter to the empty shop. “You’re a grown woman sniffing a man’s jacket like some kind of?—”

The door chimes.

I freeze, jacket pressed against my face like evidence of my complete emotional breakdown, and turn to find Grayson Reed standing in my doorway.

His hair is windblown, I’m assuming from the motorcycle parked behind him and the helmet he’s carrying.

His flannel shirt is rolled up to reveal forearms that have no business being that distracting, and he’s looking at me with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and something deeper.

“Um,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “Hi. I’m here to fix the espresso machine?”

Heat floods my face as I realize what he just witnessed. Me. Sniffing his jacket. Like a creepy person who has never interacted with attractive men before.

“I was just—the fabric softener—quality control for the—” I wave the jacket around as if that explains anything, then quickly hang it on the hook behind the counter. “The espresso machine. Yes. Emergency. Mechanical crisis of epic proportions.”

Caroline chooses this moment to emerge from the back room.

She’s been helping out at the shop from time to time.

She takes one look at the scene—me red-faced and flustered, Grayson trying not to laugh, the jacket swaying incriminatingly on its hook—and delivers the kind of perfectly timed deadpan observation that makes me question her future in stand-up comedy:

“Well, this is awkward. Should I come back when you two are done having whatever emotional crisis this is? Because I can grab more napkins from the supply closet and pretend I didn’t witness Michelle having intimate moments with menswear.”

“Caroline,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What? I’m just saying, if you’re going to sniff his clothes, maybe wait until he’s not standing right there watching you do it.” She shrugs, completely unbothered by my mortification. “Amateur move, really.”

Grayson clears his throat, and when I dare to look at him, his eyes are crinkled with barely contained laughter. “Should I be flattered or concerned about my jacket’s apparent appeal?”

“Neither,” I say quickly. “It was purely professional. Quality assessment of local laundry services. Very thorough research.”

“Right. Research.” He steps fully into the coffee shop, and suddenly the space feels smaller. “And the espresso machine emergency?”

“Oh, that.” I gesture toward the machine, which chooses this moment to emit a sound like a dying walrus. “It’s been making concerning noises all day. Steam coming from places steam shouldn’t be coming from. General mechanical rebellion.”

Caroline snorts. “It started making weird noises about five minutes after you sent that text. Funny how that timing worked out.”

I shoot her a look that could melt steel, but she just grins with satisfaction.

Grayson approaches the espresso machine with careful attention. His hands move over the controls with competent familiarity, and I try very hard not to notice how those same hands felt against mine yesterday.

“When did you last descale it?” he asks, crouching down to examine the base.

“Last month. I follow the maintenance schedule religiously.”

“Water filter?”

“Changed two weeks ago.”

He opens the back panel and peers inside with professional focus. “Ah. There’s your problem. The pressure valve’s stuck, and the temperature sensor’s giving inconsistent readings. Probably needs a good cleaning and some recalibration.”

“Is that expensive to fix?” I ask, though part of me is wondering if I deliberately sabotaged my own machine just to have an excuse to text him.

“Not expensive. Just finicky.” He glances up at me from his crouch, and the look on his face is soft in a way that makes my pulse do that flutter-skip thing. “I can fix it tonight, if you want. Won’t take long.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” His voice is quiet, but it carries weight. “Let me help.”

Caroline makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like “aww” before disguising it as a cough.

“That would be great,” I manage. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He turns back to the machine, rolling up his sleeves further. “Caroline, could you grab me a screwdriver from behind the counter? Small Phillips head should be in the tool drawer.”

“Oh, so now we’re a team?” Caroline asks, but she’s already moving toward the counter. “Michelle keeps tools in the same place she keeps her emotional defenses—locked away and only brought out for emergencies.”

“Caroline,” I warn.

“What? It’s true. You’ve got more emotional armor than a medieval knight, but one weekend with tall, dark, and brooding here, and you’re sending emergency repair texts and sniffing his jacket like a lovesick?—”

“Tool drawer,” I interrupt loudly. “Focus on the tool drawer.”

Grayson’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as he works. “Don’t mind me,” he says without turning around. “I’m just here for the mechanical crisis. The emotional commentary is purely bonus entertainment.”

“Glad we could provide quality Saturday night entertainment,” I mutter.

“Best entertainment I’ve had in years,” he says, and something in his voice makes me look at him more closely. He’s smiling as he works, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before. “Beats riding around the island thinking too hard about things I can’t control.”

Caroline returns with the screwdriver, studying both of us. “You know, for two people who are supposed to be professional enemies, you have excellent domestic chemistry.”

“We’re not domestic,” I protest.

“Right. Which is why he’s fixing your kitchen equipment on a Saturday night, and you’re watching him work like he’s performing surgery instead of basic appliance maintenance.”

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve admitting she’s completely right, Grayson makes a satisfied noise and something clicks inside the espresso machine. The dying walrus sounds stop, replaced by the familiar gentle hum of properly functioning equipment.

“Try it now,” he says, standing up and brushing dust off his hands.

I move to the machine, hyperaware of how he steps back to give me space but doesn’t move far. Our arms brush as I reach for the controls, and electricity shoots up my spine.

The machine responds perfectly—smooth extraction, proper pressure, steam wand working like new. The coffee that emerges is exactly the rich, complex blend I’ve been testing out for weeks.

“It’s perfect,” I breathe. “How did you?—?”

“Practice. I’ve fixed a lot of temperamental machines over the years.” He watches me work with an expression I can’t quite read. “Plus, your maintenance logs are incredibly detailed. Made the diagnosis easy.”

“You read my maintenance logs?”

“They were sitting right there on the counter. Very organized. Color-coded by date and problem type.” There’s something almost fond in his voice. “It’s exactly what I would have done.”

Caroline makes that “aww” noise again, louder this time.

“Caroline,” Grayson says without looking away from me, “didn’t you mention something about closing duties?”

“I did? Oh. Oh, right. Closing duties. Very important closing duties that require my immediate attention in the back room.” She grins at both of us. “Take your time with the... equipment testing.”

She disappears into the storage area with the subtle discretion of a freight train, leaving Grayson and me alone in the quiet coffee shop.

“So,” he says after a moment. “Emergency espresso machine repair.”

“Emergency espresso machine repair,” I confirm. “Very legitimate mechanical crisis.”

“On a Saturday evening. When most repair services are closed.”

“Timing is everything in the coffee business.”

He steps closer, close enough that cedar cologne washes over the scent of fresh coffee. “Michelle.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For texting me instead of calling a repair service.”

“Thank you for coming. Even though you probably knew it was barely an emergency.”

“I hoped it was barely an emergency.” His smile is soft and dangerous and does things to my cardiovascular system that should require medical supervision. “I was looking for an excuse to see you.”

My heart performs a complete acrobatic routine. “You were?”

“I’ve been looking for excuses to see you for weeks. The espresso machine just happened to provide excellent cover.”

We’re standing close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. The coffee shop feels charged with possibility, warm with golden light from the pendant lamps and the kind of quiet intimacy that happens after closing time.

“This is dangerous,” I whisper.

“What is?”

“This. Us. Standing here like we’re not professional adversaries who should be fighting about development timelines and community impact studies.”

“Maybe,” he says quietly, “we don’t have to be adversaries anymore.”

“Grayson—”

“I’ve been thinking. About what you said yesterday. About finding solutions that work for everyone.” He reaches up to touch my face, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “What if we could figure this out together? The development, the coffee shop, all of it?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to be your enemy anymore. I want to be your partner. In business and...” His voice trails off, but his eyes say everything he’s not ready to put into words.

My pulse pounds in my ears. “And?”

Instead of answering with words, he leans down and kisses me. Soft at first, tentative, as if he’s asking permission. But when I melt against him, my hands fisting in his shirt, the kiss deepens into something that tastes like possibility and coffee and the kind of trust I haven’t felt in years.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathing hard and my knees feel distinctly unreliable.

“So,” I manage. “Partners.”

“Partners,” he confirms, his forehead resting against mine. “In all the ways that matter.”

From the back room comes the sound of Caroline’s voice, clearly talking to herself: “About time those two figured it out. I was running out of subtle ways to point out the obvious.”

Grayson laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet shop. “Think she approves?”

“Caroline’s been shipping us since the first town meeting.”

“Smart kid.”

I look up at him, this man who was supposed to be my enemy and instead became something much more complicated and infinitely more precious. “Think we can do it? Figure it out together?”

“With the right partner,” he says, pressing another soft kiss to my lips, “I think we can figure out anything.”

And for the first time since this whole development nightmare started, I actually believe him.