Page 32 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)
SIXTEEN
GRAYSON
M y phone feels heavier than usual as I stare at Michelle’s number. It’s seven in the evening, officially past the acceptable window for professional contact, which makes this call what it actually is—personal.
The bouquet of daisies sits on my passenger seat like evidence of my complete abandonment of professional boundaries.
Eight dollars at the grocery store, but they might as well cost my entire construction company because calling Michelle to ask if I can bring them to her house is the kind of emotional risk I’ve spent fifteen years avoiding.
I press call before I can talk myself out of it.
“Hello?” Her voice carries slight breathlessness.
“Michelle. It’s Grayson.”
“I know. Your name came up on my phone.” There’s amusement in her voice, which is encouraging. “What’s wrong? Did the coffee shop explode? Did Mrs. Hensley stage a coup? Did the entire town decide to relocate to somewhere with better cell service?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was wondering if I could stop by. I have something for you.”
The pause that follows lasts approximately seventeen construction site emergencies’ worth of anxiety.
“You want to come to my house.”
“Your apartment. Above the coffee shop. If that’s... if you’re comfortable with that.”
“Are you bringing demolition equipment?”
“Just flowers. And possibly an apology that’s been years in the making.”
Another pause. Shorter this time, but loaded with something that makes my chest tighten.
“Okay. Come up the side stairs. The door with the ridiculous welcome mat.”
“How ridiculous are we talking?”
“You’ll see.”
She hangs up, leaving me with the distinct impression that Michelle Lawson’s definition of ridiculous might be vastly different from mine.
T he welcome mat features a cartoon coffee cup with googly eyes and the phrase Espresso Yourself in a font that suggests someone spent actual money on this deliberate act of pun-based interior decorating.
I stare at it for a full thirty seconds, trying to reconcile this evidence of Michelle’s sense of humor with seven years of professional interaction where she’s maintained the kind of polished customer service that never hints at cartoon coffee cup appreciation.
The door opens before I can knock.
“It was a gift from Jessica,” Michelle says immediately, apparently reading my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. “I can’t throw it away without offending her.”
“I wasn’t judging the mat.”
“You were definitely judging the mat.”
“I was appreciating the mat. There’s a difference.”
She’s changed out of her coffee shop uniform into jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her eyes look more gold than brown.
Her hair is down, falling in waves around her shoulders, and seeing her in civilian clothes in her own space creates an intimacy that makes my carefully prepared apology speech evaporate completely.
“Are those for me?” She nods toward the daisies.
“These are for you.” I hand them over with the same ceremony I’d use to present architectural blueprints. “I remembered you mentioning them.”
“When?”
“Three years ago. Community center committee meeting. Mrs. Daniels was arguing about seasonal flower appropriateness.”
Michelle stares at me with an expression I can’t interpret. “You remembered a comment I made about flowers three years ago.”
“I remember everything you say. It’s becoming a professional liability.”
She steps back to let me enter, and I follow her into an apartment that immediately explains everything I never knew I wanted to understand about Michelle Lawson.
The space is warm and slightly chaotic in the way that suggests she actually lives here. Books are everywhere—shelves lining the walls, stacks on the coffee table, a paperback splayed open on the couch with reading glasses perched on top. The kitchen is tiny but efficient, with vintage appliances.
But what stops me completely are the photographs covering nearly every available surface.
“This is...” I pause, trying to find words that don’t sound like a home inspection report. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s small. And the heating is temperamental. And sometimes the espresso machine downstairs makes the whole building shake.” She’s fidgeting with the daisy stems, not quite meeting my eyes. “But it’s home.”
I move toward the gallery wall, drawn by the evidence of Michelle’s life spread out in frames.
Family photos showing her with people who share her smile and her laugh lines.
Beach pictures with friends, arms around each other with the kind of casual affection that speaks to years of friendship. And then...
“Is this your dog?” I stop in front of a photo showing Michelle with a Golden Retriever whose expression suggests he believes he’s actually a small human who just happens to be covered in fur.
“That was Biscuit.” Her voice softens. “He passed away two years ago.”
“He looks like he had opinions.”
“So many opinions. He disapproved of early morning deliveries, anyone who didn’t appreciate his greeting style, and the postal service in general.
” She joins me in front of the photo, close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral that makes concentration extremely difficult.
“He also believed that coffee shops should have a canine quality control department.”
“Naturally.”
“He would sit right behind the counter every morning, supervising my espresso technique. Customers loved him.”
“I’m sure they did.” I study the photo, noting how Michelle’s smile is completely unguarded, how she’s looking at the camera but her hand is resting on Biscuit’s head with unconscious affection. “You look happy.”
“I was happy. Biscuit made everything better.” She moves away from the photo wall, toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Wine? Water from the tap that sometimes tastes funny?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
She opens a bottle of red wine that looks more expensive than my usual beer selection, pouring two glasses with the same precision she applies to espresso measurements.
“So,” she says, handing me a glass. “Flowers and apologies. This sounds like a significant conversation.”
“I owe you full disclosure about Miranda.”
“Your ex-wife.”
“The woman who left because I was emotionally unavailable. But that’s incomplete information.”
Michelle settles into the corner of the couch, tucking her legs under her in a way that makes the space feel even more intimate. “Complete information?”
“Miranda didn’t leave because I couldn’t love her.
She left because I was too afraid to try.
” I remain standing, pacing slightly because sitting feels too casual for this level of emotional excavation.
“She said loving me was like trying to embrace concrete. That I used work as a weapon against intimacy.”
“Accurate assessment?”
“Devastatingly. I confused providing for her with being present with her. Turns out those are completely different concepts.”
Michelle sips her wine, studying my face with the careful attention she usually reserves for complex espresso machine repairs. “And now?”
“Now I’m standing in your living room with discount flowers because you make me want to try presence instead of absence.
” The admission feels like stepping off a construction scaffold without safety equipment.
“You make me want to be here, available, all the terrifying territories Miranda needed that I was too much of a coward to explore.”
“What changed?”
“You changed everything.” I stop pacing and look directly at her. “How you fight for this place, defend this community. How you make me want to earn you.”
She sets down her wine glass with careful precision. “Earn me?”
“Michelle, you’re brilliant and passionate and brave enough to declare war on municipal policy when developers threaten your world. I’m a divorced contractor who spent decades hiding behind professional detachment because emotional availability felt too expensive.”
“You’re also the man who redesigned an entire development project because I asked you to consider community impact.”
“That wasn’t community consideration. That was me realizing I’d rather build things that make you happy than things that make investors wealthy.”
The silence that follows is loaded with the kind of tension that makes the air feel charged. Michelle stands up and walks to her bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines with nervous energy.
“Can I share something about David?” she asks without turning around.
“Anything.”
“David didn’t just steal my business concept.
He stole my confidence in my own judgment.
” Her voice maintains steady control, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“I built everything with him—business plans, financial projections, dreams of what our coffee shop could become. When I discovered he’d taken it all to Atlanta and left me with debt instead of partnership, I questioned every decision I’d ever made. ”
“Including coming back here.”
“Including coming back here. Including believing I could rebuild. Including thinking I had enough strength for second chances.” She turns to face me, and the vulnerability in her expression makes me want to cross the room and gather her against me.
“When you appeared with demolition paperwork, it felt exactly like David’s playbook.
A guy I trusted and was starting to care about, trying to destroy everything I’d rebuilt. ”
The parallel hits like structural failure. “That’s why you fought so hard.”
“That’s why I fought so hard. And that’s why yesterday terrified me.” She moves closer, though her hands tremble slightly. “Because somewhere between zoning permit arguments and kissing you outside my coffee shop, I realized I was falling in love with you.”
Relief floods through me. “Confirmed?”
“Confirmed. Which is inconvenient timing, considering you’re supposed to be my professional nemesis.”