Page 4 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

THREE

MICHELLE

S erving coffee to half of Twin Waves through holiday rushes and off-season lulls has taught me how this town actually operates. Mrs. Hensley’s morning gossip transforms into official policy by noon.

Jessica’s bookshop smells like vanilla candles and desperation. The Bookaholics Anonymous emergency session has commandeered every chair, including the sofa, but Jessica’s red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks tell me this isn’t just about my crisis anymore.

“Oh thank goodness you’re here,” Jessica says, rushing toward me with a crumpled envelope clutched in her trembling hands.

“Michelle, I got one too.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

“Same company, same sixty days. Reed Development doesn’t just want your coffee shop—they want my bookstore, Jo’s boutique, the ice cream shop, the whole waterfront strip.

I called around after I got mine this morning.

We all got the same notice, Michelle. Every single business down here. Sixty days for all of us.”

Jo’s voice trembles from the reading corner. “Mine came yesterday. Same envelope, same letterhead. I’ve been too scared to open it properly, but when I saw you two...” She holds up her own crumpled notice.

The envelope hits Jessica’s reading table like a declaration of war. My hastily assembled army of romance readers stares at both notices with the kind of horrified silence usually reserved for book burnings and poorly written third-act breakups.

Apparently, our lives have devolved into a Hallmark movie where the heroines survive on caffeine and spite while contemplating homicide by espresso machine steam wand.

“Strategy trumps hysteria,” Jessica declares, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before distributing surprisingly decent coffee in mugs that probably contain more caffeine than my industrial machine produces.

“Both our shops anchor this end of Ocean Avenue. We’re not collateral damage.

We’re the primary targets.” Her voice steadies with each word, transforming from devastated business owner to war general.

“But the town council responds to documentation, not tears.”

“Civil disobedience,” Mads announces, brandishing this month’s book club selection with theatrical conviction. The illustrated cover features a couple embracing on a beach with waves crashing behind them. Of course, it’s enemies-to-lovers.

“We’ll chain ourselves to the buildings,” Amber says. “Force them to arrest respectable mothers on live television. Politicians flee bad optics faster than teenagers abandon part-time jobs.”

“You have three kids,” I point out. “Arrest records complicate carpool logistics.”

Jessica hosts reading groups that keep the over-sixty demographic socially engaged.

Jo’s vintage boutique attracts tourists seeking authentic coastal charm instead of mass-produced seaside kitsch, and the ice cream shop has delighted tourists and locals for generations.

Years of interconnected community economics are about to crumble because some corporation decided our neighborhood looked profitable.

“Research defeats drama every time,” Hazel states.

“Though feelings matter,” Jo whispers from Jessica’s reading corner. She’s our newest recruit. “My entire clientele comes here for small-town charm that can’t be faked by luxury developments.”

The responsibility slams into me, setting my pulse racing until I can hear it in my ears. My stomach feels hollow, sour, like I’ve downed four espressos on an empty stomach. My palms itch, restless with a jittery energy that has nowhere to go except back into my bones.

Brown eyes flashing recognition. Years of morning conversations that apparently meant absolutely nothing to anyone except me.

Grayson hasn’t returned since our devastating confrontation two days ago.

Part of me startles at every door chime, which is ridiculous because I absolutely refuse to see him.

The other part dreads his inevitable return, probably acting like our explosion never happened while ordering his double espresso with that polite distance he reserves for purely transactional interactions.

Both reactions infuriate me.

“What kind of intelligence do we have about this development?” Jessica asks, producing a legal pad because she approaches impromptu war councils with the same organizational skills she applies to managing book discussions about problematic romance heroes.

Hazel spreads Mrs. Hensley’s reconnaissance across Jessica’s reading table like battle plans. “Luxury condominiums starting at six hundred thousand dollars. Ground-floor commercial space reserved for ‘upscale dining and boutique shopping experiences.’”

“Upscale.” Amber snorts, gesturing around Jessica’s bookshop filled with rescued furniture and local art installations. “Corporate translation: ‘No businesses that actually serve people who live here year-round.’”

“Chain stores replace Michelle’s custom drinks and Jessica’s community events. Mass-produced coastal décor instead of authentic local character.” Jo’s voice carries bitterness.

Jessica scribbles notes with war correspondent intensity. “I’ll research zoning regulations and historic district possibilities. The library may have resources, and I know which librarians have connections to state historical societies that would be interested in preserving the building.”

“We need a social media campaign,” Amber continues, shifting from theatrical protest to practical strategy. “Developers hate negative publicity that threatens profit margins. We document what makes this place irreplaceable and demonstrate what we’ll lose.”

“Photo essays showcasing community events,” Jo suggests, warming to collaborative possibilities. “Before-and-after comparisons. Humanize the economic impact instead of making everything another town statistic.”

My brain spins with possibilities that hover between brilliant activism and complete delusion brought on by sleep deprivation and righteous fury.

“I’ll coordinate business owner unity. The town council needs to witness organized opposition instead of individual complaints they can dismiss as sour grapes. ”

Hazel stands with the kind of determination that probably terrified her children into exemplary citizenship. “Count me in completely. This town raised my family. No developer destroys it under my watch.”

Agreement buzzes through the bookshop, plans crystallizing, women volunteering for specific tasks with the enthusiasm of neighbors who’ve discovered a common cause worth fighting.

Then Mads delivers the cold water of reality.

“According to Grandma Hensley, Grayson Reed isn’t some faceless corporate villain,” she points out gently, voicing the complication I’ve been avoiding.

“Half our families hired him for home renovations. He’s coached Little League, donated to the fire department, and delivered soup when grandmothers got sick. ”

Uncomfortable silence settles. Everyone knows Grayson’s local reputation. Charity events, volunteer contributions, the kind of community involvement that transforms contractors into neighbors.

Who apparently spent years planning to demolish my life’s work.

“That makes it infinitely worse,” I say, sharper than intended. “He understands exactly what this place means to people. He knows precisely what he’s destroying, and he’s choosing corporate profit anyway.”

“Michelle—” Jessica starts.

“No compromise with betrayal.” The words emerge harder than intended, but momentum carries them forward. “You don’t negotiate with a person who’s been lying to your face for who knows how long. You fight back with everything available.”

Because eight years ago, trusting the wrong person cost me everything I’d built.

My business partner and fiancé decided my coffee shop concept was brilliant enough to steal while I wasn’t valuable enough to keep around.

Left me financially devastated and emotionally shattered, questioning every instinct about people and trust and whether I could build anything worth preserving.

Never making that mistake again.

“I need to return to the shop,” I announce, gathering papers and dignity remnants. “Regular customers don’t know yet. They deserve to hear it from me instead of the town gossip network.”

Jessica catches my arm at the door. “Michelle. Are you handling this okay?”

Am I okay? The business faces demolition in fifty-five days.

My morning routine was exploded by the revelation that my most reliable customer has been the enemy all along.

I’m about to fight the biggest battle of my adult life with a ticking clock and growing suspicion that part of me feels more hurt than angry.

“I will be once we save this place.”

The walk back to Twin Waves Brewing Co. takes exactly three minutes, but my mind replays details I never analyzed.

How Grayson always chose the table with perfect counter visibility.

How he timed visits to avoid rush crowds, allowing actual conversations.

How he’s the only customer who knows I take my own coffee with two sugars and vanilla creamer.

Details that either prove Mrs. Hensley’s romantic theories or confirm my worst suspicions about recon disguised as friendship.

The afternoon rush arrives precisely on schedule, providing blessed distraction from thoughts spiraling toward emotional territories I refuse to explore. Muscle memory takes control—espresso shots pulling and milk steaming to perfect temperature.

“You look worse than my sister Ellen after a grocery store tantrum,” Hazel’s daughter, Lila, observes, sliding onto her usual counter stool next to Caroline with effortless energy. “What happened?”

“Reed Development wants to tear down the building. Sixty days notice.”

“Reed Development?” Lila’s forehead wrinkles as her mental database processes local connections. “Wait. Grayson Reed? Your grouchy regular who tips like he’s apologizing for existing?”