Page 38 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

“I’m trying to make responsible decisions?—”

“You sound exactly like David.”

The name lands low. Stomach drops. A high, thin ring sparks in my ears like a saw blade catching a nail.

“I’m nothing like him.” It comes out too fast, too sharp. Shame burns up the back of my neck.

“Aren’t you? Professional partnership that suddenly becomes too risky when real intimacy develops? Business decisions that prioritize profit over people? Using my trust to advance your own interests and then cutting me loose when the relationship becomes inconvenient?”

I steady my hands on the counter edge until the knuckles blanch. Sweat beads under my collar despite the draft sneaking under the door.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

Air thins. Every instinct is to tell her about Norris; every calculation says that truth detonates what little trust she has left. Goosebumps lift along my forearms while heat prickles beneath them, a body at war with itself.

So I choose the lie that might save her business over the truth that would definitely break her heart.

“It’s me realizing that I’m not ready for the kind of relationship that can survive professional complications.”

The sentence tastes like metal on my tongue. The moment it leaves my mouth, the room goes quiet and heavy.

The words hit her like a slap. I watch her face close down, watch every wall I’ve spent weeks carefully dismantling slide back into place.

“I see.” Her voice goes flat, professional. “Well. Thank you for clarifying that before I made any additional emotional investments.”

“Michelle—”

“I think you should go.”

I flinch. Fingers curl against the chair back, then release. Heat drains out of my skin and leaves a clean, cold shake in its wake.

“We can still work together professionally. The project doesn’t have to?—”

“Get out.”

The finality raises a ripple along my scalp. The only smart move left is obedience.

I set down my untouched coffee and head for the door, feeling like I’m walking away from everything that matters for the sake of protecting it. The jamb is cool under my palm—steady, unlike the pulse thudding at my throat.

“Honestly,” I say from her doorway, “last night was real. What we built together was real.”

My voice is low and rough. An apology shatters before it can clear my teeth. Breathing stays shallow; shame still burns hot at the base of my skull, even as goosebumps pebble my arms.

“No,” she says without turning around. “Real things don’t disappear because of timeline changes and professional complications. What we had was exactly what you said—personal feelings that couldn’t survive contact with your actual priorities.”

I leave her apartment knowing I’ve just made the most devastating mistake of my life in service of potentially saving hers.

By the time I reach my truck, my phone is buzzing with a text. Norris: Looking forward to visiting Twin Waves next week. Heard wonderful things about the local business community.

I’ve protected Michelle from one betrayal by delivering another.

The question now is whether she’ll ever forgive me enough to let me explain the difference.

D awn breaks over the Atlantic with all the subtlety of a freight train, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and pink. The cold wind whips across the beach with enough force to make my eyes water, but I need the punishment of salt air and burning lungs more than I need warmth.

My feet pound against the packed sand in a rhythm that matches the chaos in my head. Idiot. Coward. Destroyer of everything good.

The sound of paws thundering across sand behind me breaks through my self-flagellation. Scout comes barreling past like he’s been shot from a cannon, a blur of golden fur and boundless energy that makes my own pace look pathetic.

“Morning to you too,” I call after him, grateful for the distraction.

Jack’s voice carries over the crash of waves. “Scout! Get back here, you maniac!”

I slow down to see Jack jogging toward me, hair sticking up like he wrestled with his pillow and lost. Brett trails behind him, looking equally disheveled but more resigned to the early morning chaos.

“He spotted a seagull,” Jack pants as he catches up. “Decided it was his personal mission to make friends.”

“How’d that go?” Brett asks, joining our impromptu group.

“The seagull declined his offer,” Jack says dryly.

We fall into step together, Scout racing ahead to investigate every piece of seaweed and driftwood like he’s conducting a scientific survey of the beach.

“You’re up early,” Brett observes, shooting me a sideways look. “Everything okay?”

The question hits harder than it should because nothing is okay. Everything is devastatingly wrong, and it’s entirely my fault.

“Yeah,” I lie, focusing on keeping my breathing steady. “Just needed to clear my head.”

“Dangerous activity,” Jack mutters. “Thinking at dawn. That’s how you end up making terrible decisions.”

He has no idea how accurate that assessment is.

The three of us run in companionable silence for a few minutes, our footsteps creating a steady rhythm against the backdrop of crashing waves. Scout continues his enthusiastic exploration ahead of us, occasionally doubling back to make sure we’re keeping up with his important work.

“So,” Brett says finally, because apparently he’s incapable of leaving well enough alone, “want to talk about whatever’s eating you alive, or are we pretending this is just a casual dawn jog?”

I stumble slightly, caught off guard by his directness. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right. And I’m out here at sunrise because I love freezing my tushie off while running through sand.”

Jack laughs. “Brett’s got a point. We’re all here because something’s driving us crazy enough to voluntarily exercise before the sun’s fully up.”

“I like running,” I protest weakly.

“You like running when you’re trying to outrun your problems,” Brett corrects with the brutal honesty that makes him both infuriating and oddly comforting. “Trust me, I recognize the signs.”

The accuracy of his observation makes my chest tight. Because that’s exactly what I’m doing—trying to run fast enough and far enough to escape the memory of Michelle’s face when I chose professional safety over everything we’d built together.

“It’s complicated,” I say finally.

“The best things usually are,” Jack replies, echoing something I’ve heard him say before. “Doesn’t mean they’re not worth fighting for.”

Fighting for. The phrase sticks in my throat because fighting for Michelle would mean telling her the truth about Norris, which would mean admitting that my attempt to protect her might have made everything worse.

“What if fighting for something means risking everything you’re trying to protect?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Brett and Jack exchange a look over my head that suggests they’re having an entire conversation without words.

“Depends,” Brett says carefully. “Are you protecting the thing itself, or are you protecting yourself from the possibility of losing it?”

The question hits like a punch to the gut because I know the answer, and it’s not flattering.

“Both,” I admit quietly.

“Yeah,” Jack says with understanding that makes me wonder what battles he’s fought in his own relationship. “That’s the hardest kind of protection. When you can’t tell the difference between keeping a person safe and keeping yourself safe from them.”

Scout suddenly veers toward us, clearly deciding we’ve been far too serious for far too long. He bounds straight at Brett with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests he’s about to share his joy whether Brett wants it or not.

“Oh, no—” Brett starts, but Scout’s already launching himself at Brett’s chest with the force of a furry missile.

Brett staggers backward, arms windmilling as he tries to keep his balance while Scout plants his paws on his chest and attempts to lick his face with dedication like he’s found his life’s purpose.

“Down! Scout, down!” Jack calls, but he’s laughing too hard to sound authoritative.

Brett finally manages to regain his footing, though Scout remains convinced that what the moment really needs is more enthusiastic face-washing.

“Your dog,” Brett says to Jack, gently but firmly pushing Scout’s paws off his chest, “has boundary issues.”

“He likes you,” Jack says with a grin. “Consider it a compliment.”

“I’ll consider it a reason to bring treats next time,” Brett mutters, but he’s scratching behind Scout’s ears with genuine affection.

The brief moment of chaos breaks something loose in my chest. Because this—friends who show up at dawn without asking questions, dogs who express joy without reservation, people who stick around even when you’re clearly working through something—this is what Michelle was fighting to preserve in Twin Waves.

This is what I might have destroyed by choosing fear over faith.

“We should head back,” Jack says, checking his watch. “Hazel will have breakfast ready, and Scout needs to rediscover his manners before he terrorizes any more innocent joggers.”

As we turn to retrace our steps along the beach, the sun climbs higher, transforming the angry dawn colors into something softer and more hopeful. The wind still cuts through our layers, but it feels less punishing now.

“The truth is,” Brett says quietly as we walk, Scout trotting beside us, “the right person won’t make you choose between protecting them and trusting them.”

The observation settles into the hollow space in my chest where certainty used to live. Because Brett’s right—the right person should be able to handle the truth, even when it’s complicated and scary and potentially dangerous.

The question is whether I’ve already lost my chance to find out if Michelle is that person.