Page 36 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)
The plates launch through the air in multiple arcs, most of them landing on the ground, until one lands directly in my lap, covering my carefully chosen sundress in cream sauce and what appears to be an entire crab’s worth of meat.
The table falls silent except for the gentle lapping of water against the dock. The server looks mortified. I look down at my lap, now decorated with dinner, and feel hysterical laughter building in my chest.
“Oh goodness,” Amber breathes. “Michelle, I’m so sorry, let me get some napkins?—”
“It’s fine,” I manage, though I can feel cream sauce soaking through the fabric. “Really, it’s?—”
“It’s not fine.” Grayson’s chair scrapes back, and suddenly he’s beside me, his presence commanding enough to make nearby diners politely avert their eyes. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
“I can handle?—”
“Stand up,” he says, voice dropping to that gravelly register that bypasses my brain and speaks directly to more primitive parts of my anatomy. “Slowly.”
When I rise, cream sauce immediately begins dripping from my dress onto the deck, and I feel heat flood my cheeks at the obvious disaster zone I’ve become.
Without hesitation, Grayson shrugs out of his button-down shirt, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that molds to every sculpted line of his chest and shoulders.
The sight of him half-undressed and moving with protective purpose makes my pulse spike for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with embarrassment.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, stepping behind me so his chest nearly brushes my back. “Face the water.”
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out breathier than intended as his hands settle on my shoulders.
“Creating a distraction.” His breath tickles my ear as he drapes his shirt over my arm like a waiter’s towel. “While you clean the worst of it off your dress, I’m going to be standing very close behind you, blocking everyone’s view and looking completely besotted.”
“Looking besotted?” I manage, though my brain short-circuits when his thumb traces the nape of my neck.
“Won’t be much of a stretch,” he says, voice rough with something that sounds dangerously like barely leashed hunger. “Now get the chunks off your dress while I stand here being your human shield. And try not to think about how much I want to kiss that spot right behind your ear.”
The casual confession nearly makes my knees buckle. “Grayson?—”
“Focus, sweetheart.” His hands rest lightly on my waist, steadying me while the server appears with an armful of napkins and profuse apologies. “Though for the record, watching you handle a crisis with this much grace is doing dangerous things to my already questionable self-control.”
I accept the napkins with as much dignity as I can muster, dabbing at the cream sauce coating my dress. The silk fabric darkens with moisture as I work, and what started as an elegant sundress rapidly transforms into something that clings to every curve with inappropriate transparency.
“This isn’t working,” I mutter, acutely aware that wet silk reveals far more than I intended to share with the entire Back Porch Restaurant. “I look like I entered a wet t-shirt contest.”
Grayson’s sharp intake of breath behind me suggests he’s reached the same conclusion, though his reaction seems less focused on the problem and more on the... scenic aspects of the situation.
“Michelle.” His voice drops to a register that bypasses rational thought and heads straight for more primitive neural pathways. “We need to get you covered. Now.”
The barely leashed hunger in his tone makes my skin prickle with awareness. This is about more than gentlemanly concern—this is a man fighting every instinct to claim what he wants while surrounded by witnesses and social expectations.
“Take my shirt,” he says, already reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.
“Grayson, no—” I start, but he’s already pulling the white cotton over his head in one fluid motion that should be illegal in seventeen states.
Sweet mercy.
If I thought the button-down reveal was devastating, watching Grayson Reed strip to bare skin in the golden light of an Outer Banks sunset might actually require medical intervention.
Every muscle in his chest and shoulders seems carved by a person with both artistic vision and a dangerous understanding of female psychology.
“Put it on,” he commands, voice rough enough to strip paint. “Like a dress.”
My brain short-circuits as I stare at his chest, at the way evening light plays across skin that looks like it tastes as good as it appears. “I can’t—people will see?—”
“People will see exactly what I want them to see,” he says with quiet authority, stepping closer until I can feel heat radiating from his bare skin. “A man taking care of his woman.”
His woman. The possessive claim sends liquid fire racing through my veins.
“Wait!” Amber’s voice cuts through my hormone-induced trance. “I have a better idea.” She’s already standing, hands working beneath her own dress. “Leggings. I always wear them under dresses because I’m paranoid about wardrobe malfunctions.”
She shimmy-steps out of her black leggings. “Here—you can wear Grayson’s shirt as a tunic, and these will make everything appropriate.”
The solution is so practical and thoughtful that I want to hug her, except I’m currently standing between a shirtless man who looks like he wants to devour me and a restaurant full of tourists who are pretending not to stare.
“Bathroom,” Brett says, standing with the kind of protective authority that mirrors Grayson’s energy. “Amber will help you change, and we’ll handle damage control out here.”
“I’ll be right outside the door,” Grayson adds, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he says it. Like he’s posting guard against any threat to something precious.
The women’s restroom at the Back Porch turns out to be mercifully empty, allowing me to strip out of my ruined dress with whatever dignity I have remaining. Amber helps me into her leggings—which fit surprisingly well—before I pull Grayson’s t-shirt over my head.
The fabric is still warm from his body, saturated with his scent in a way that makes my pulse race with entirely inappropriate thoughts. The shirt falls to mid-thigh, transforming into an oversized tunic that somehow manages to be both modest and utterly feminine.
“You look amazing,” Amber says, grinning as she adjusts the neckline. “Like you’re wearing your boyfriend’s shirt, but make it fashion.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Amber?—”
“What? It’s a good look on you.” She steps back, examining her handiwork with obvious satisfaction. “Plus, Grayson is going to lose his mind seeing you in his clothes. Men are weirdly territorial about that stuff.”
She’s not wrong. When we emerge from the bathroom, Grayson’s reaction is immediate and devastating. His eyes lock on me wearing his shirt, and something primitive and hungry flashes across his face before he masters it.
“Better?” he asks, but his voice carries undertones that suggest he finds this particular solution both better and infinitely more problematic.
“Much better,” I manage, though wearing his shirt feels like being wrapped in his claim, surrounded by his scent and warmth in a way that makes thinking difficult.
“Good,” he says simply, but the way his gaze travels from my face to where his shirt skims my thighs suggests his thoughts are anything but simple.
Brett clears his throat. “Crisis averted. Should we order dessert, or are we calling it a successful evening?”
“Dessert,” Amber says firmly. “We’re celebrating successful problem-solving and the fact that Michelle looks absolutely stunning in borrowed clothes.”
As we settle back at our table, I’m hyperaware of every place Grayson’s shirt touches my skin, of the way his scent surrounds me like a second skin. When he reaches for my hand under the table, his thumb traces patterns on my palm that feel like promises.
“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning it for so much more than just the shirt.
His smile in response is soft and dangerous and full of unspoken intentions. “Anything for you,” he says quietly. “Though I have to admit, seeing you in my shirt is making it very difficult to remember we’re in public.”
The heat in his voice makes my breath catch. “Grayson?—”
“I know.” His thumb continues its maddening circles on my wrist, finding my pulse point with devastating precision. “But for the record, when we get home tonight, I’m going to have a very hard time not thinking about you wearing my clothes.”
The promise in his words sends fire racing through my veins, and suddenly the thought of the ferry ride back to Cedar Island—forty minutes trapped in close quarters with a man who’s looking at me like I’m something he wants to unwrap slowly—feels both like the best and most dangerous idea in the world.
“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning it for so much more than just the shirt.
“Anything for you,” he says simply, and the sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight with emotion.
“Okay, that was officially the most romantic rescue I’ve ever witnessed,” Amber declares, fanning herself with the dinner menu. “If Brett had done that on our first date, I would have proposed to him.”
“I’m taking notes,” Brett says dryly, though his eyes are warm with approval as he watches Grayson settle back into his chair while keeping one protective hand on my arm.
The server returns with enough napkins to clean a small restaurant and profuse apologies, but I barely notice because Grayson leans close enough that his breath tickles my ear.
“For the record,” he murmurs, voice pitched to that gravelly register that turns my bones to liquid, “you look better in my shirt than I ever did.”
The comment sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening breeze. “Keep talking like that and I might never give it back.”
“I was counting on that,” he says, and the heat in his voice makes me brave.
“Good thing I look terrible in cream sauce, then.”
“Michelle.” His hand finds mine under the table, fingers intertwining with devastating precision. “You could be covered in mud and wearing a paper sack, and you’d still be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
The fierce sincerity in his voice steals my breath completely. The way he’s looking at me—like I’m precious and desired and worth protecting from flying seafood—makes something deep in my chest unfurl with dangerous warmth.
“So,” Brett says, clearly trying to give us a moment to recover, “tell us more about these grant applications. Because if we’re going to save Jessica’s bookstore and create Michelle’s dream coffee shop, we’re going to need a solid plan.”
As Grayson launches into detailed explanations of funding timelines and application processes, his hand never leaves mine, his shirt still warm around my shoulders like a promise.
The conversation flows around historic tax credits and community development grants, but I’m acutely aware of every small touch, every heated glance, every moment when his attention returns to me like a magnet finding true north.
“The key is demonstrating community partnership,” he’s saying, thumb tracing small circles on my palm that make concentration nearly impossible. “Historic preservation works best when it serves current needs while honoring the past.”
“Like what you two are building together,” Amber observes with barely contained excitement. “Professional collaboration that’s clearly becoming something more.”
“Amber,” I warn, though my voice lacks conviction because she’s not wrong.
“I’m just saying, watching you two navigate business and romance is like watching a masterclass in sexual tension.” She grins at Brett. “Remember when we were pretending we were just business partners?”
“We were never just business partners,” Brett says firmly, pulling her closer with possessive certainty. “We were two people falling in love who happened to run a restaurant together.”
The parallel makes my breath catch, especially when Grayson’s fingers tighten around mine.
“Is that what we are?” I ask quietly, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Grayson turns to face me fully, brown eyes dark with something that makes my pulse skip.
“I don’t know about you,” he says, voice low and rough with honesty, “but I stopped pretending this was just business the moment you let me into your apartment. The moment you trusted me enough to share your dreams over embroidered dogs.”
The raw vulnerability in his admission makes my throat tight. “Grayson?—”
“I’m falling in love with you, Michelle Lawson,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “With your passion for this town, your terrific coffee, the way you organize sticky notes by color. With the woman who fights for what she believes in and lets me be part of the fight.”
The confession hangs between us like a challenge, weighted with possibility and the terrifying promise of everything I’ve been too scared to want since David.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, because honesty seems to be the theme of the evening.
“Good,” he says, his smile soft but eyes intense. “Because what we’re building together is worth being scared over.”
Before I can respond, the server returns with my replacement dinner and more apologies, but the moment feels suspended in amber—Grayson’s declaration, the weight of his shirt around my shoulders, the way the sunset paints everything in shades of possibility.
“So,” Amber says when we’ve all been served and the immediate crisis has passed, “are we calling this your first official double date?”
I look around the table—at Brett and Amber radiant with the confidence of love that knows itself, at Grayson watching me with patient heat that suggests he’s willing to wait for me to catch up to where my heart is already running.
“I think,” I say slowly, testing the words like a prayer, “we can call it whatever we want.”
Grayson’s smile in response is soft and devastating and full of promises about the future we’re brave enough to build together.
Even if it occasionally involves flying seafood and borrowed shirts that smell like home.