Page 40 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

But hiding won’t help. In a town this size, absence gets interpreted as weakness, and I can’t afford to look vulnerable when my business relationships depend on community confidence in my stability.

“Ten minutes,” I say, pushing myself off the floor. “Just long enough to prove I haven’t completely fallen apart.”

“You haven’t fallen apart at all,” Jessica says firmly. “You’ve been reminded that some people aren’t worth the risk. There’s a difference.”

I change into a clean shirt and tie my hair back, checking my reflection for signs of emotional devastation that might concern customers. The face looking back at me shows strain around the eyes, tightness in the jaw that speaks to clenched teeth and suppressed fury.

But I’ve looked worse. And I’ve survived worse.

The question is whether surviving this time will require building walls so high that nothing gets through again.

T he late afternoon crowd at Twin Waves Brewing buzzes with the kind of subdued energy that suggests people are discussing something more interesting than weekend plans and weather predictions.

Conversations pause as Jessica and I descend the stairs from my apartment, then resume with the forced casualness of people pretending they weren’t just speculating about my personal life.

Caroline looks up from her homework with obvious relief, her young face creasing with concern that makes my chest tight. “Michelle! Are you okay?”

The inquiry carries genuine worry rather than curiosity, which makes it both easier and harder to handle. Because Caroline’s investment in my wellbeing is real, unlike the gossip-driven interest of some customers who treat other people’s drama as entertainment.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” I lie smoothly, muscle memory of emotional self-protection kicking in to deliver the response people need to hear. “Just working through some business complications.”

“Business complications?” Mrs. Hensley looks up from her afternoon tea with sharp interest. “What kind of business complications?”

Before I can deflect, the coffee shop door chimes with violent force, nearly rattling the windows. Penelope Waters strides in with theatrical flair.

Perfect. Because this day clearly wasn’t bad enough without my nemesis showing up to gloat over my latest romantic disaster.

“Michelle, darling!” Penelope’s voice carries saccharine sympathy that doesn’t fool anyone. “I just heard the most interesting news about your little collaboration project.”

The coffee shop falls silent with the anticipatory hush of people recognizing that they’re about to witness either spectacular entertainment or brutal social warfare. Possibly both.

“Penelope,” I reply with professional politeness that could frost glass. “What can I get you today?”

“Oh, I’m not here for coffee. I have my own sources for quality beverages.” Her smile sharpens with predatory satisfaction. “I’m here because I wanted to express my sympathy about your recent... professional disappointment.”

Jessica steps closer to my side with protective instincts that would make Biscuit proud. Caroline’s eyes widen as she recognizes the tension crackling through the air like electricity before a storm.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow.”

“Your development partnership, sweetie. Such a shame when business relationships don’t work out as expected.” Penelope examines her perfectly manicured nails with studied indifference. “Especially when you’ve invested so much... personally... in the collaboration.”

The emphasis on ‘personally’ lands like a slap. Because of course she knows. In a town this size, emotional devastation becomes public knowledge before you’ve finished experiencing it privately.

“Business partnerships end for various reasons,” I reply evenly, years of customer service training preventing me from delivering the response she deserves. “Professional differences, timeline conflicts, changing priorities.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s the diplomatic way to explain it.” Penelope’s laugh carries the musical quality of a woman thoroughly enjoying herself at another’s expense. “Though I must say, I’m impressed by your resilience. Most people would be devastated by such a... public... professional rejection.”

The word ‘rejection’ hits exactly where she intended it to, because that’s what this morning was. Not just the end of a business partnership, but a personal dismissal delivered with clinical precision designed to minimize emotional fallout.

For him, anyway.

“Is there something specific you need, Mrs. Waters?” Jessica’s voice carries warning that anyone with functional social awareness would recognize as dangerous.

“Just offering support to a fellow small business owner during a difficult transition.” Penelope’s gaze shifts to the bulletin board covered with community event announcements and local business advertisements.

“You know, if you ever need advice about maintaining professional boundaries in small communities, I’d be happy to share some insights. ”

“That’s very generous,” I say, channeling every ounce of Southern grace my mother ever tried to teach me, “but I think I can manage my own business relationships.”

“Of course you can. You’ve done such an... interesting... job so far.”

The barb strikes home because it’s accurate. My track record with business relationships includes one spectacular betrayal by a romantic partner and now a professional dismissal by a guy I allowed myself to trust again.

“Was there anything else?” I ask, my patience fraying despite my best efforts to maintain polite indifference.

“Actually, yes.” Penelope’s expression brightens with genuine excitement. “I wanted to let you know that the Tourism Board approved my proposal for a coffee shop licensing program. We’ll be bringing some wonderful new options to Twin Waves over the next few months.”

The announcement hits like a physical blow. Because while I’ve been collaborating with Grayson on development solutions and community partnership, Penelope has been working behind the scenes to eliminate local business competition through official channels.

“Licensing program?” Caroline asks with innocent curiosity.

“Regional chains with proven success models and superior resources,” Penelope explains with theatrical enthusiasm. “Much more reliable than local businesses that depend on... personal... relationships for sustainability.”

There it is. The real reason for this visit. Not just to gloat over my romantic failure, but to announce that while I was distracted by feelings and collaboration, she was positioning herself to destroy my business through legitimate bureaucratic channels.

“How progressive,” Jessica says with venom that could strip paint.

“I think so too. Twin Waves deserves professional food service options that can provide consistent quality and reliable hours.” Penelope’s gaze sweeps around my coffee shop with obvious disdain.

“Sometimes local businesses become too... invested... in personal drama to maintain professional standards.”

The accusation stings because it carries enough truth to hurt. I have been distracted by personal feelings. I did allow attraction to override professional judgment. And now I’m paying the price for believing that business partnership could coexist with romantic possibility.

“Well,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the rage building in my chest, “I suppose we’ll see how the community responds to those new options.”

“Oh, I’m confident they’ll appreciate having choices.” Penelope heads toward the door with obvious satisfaction at having delivered maximum damage. “After all, people deserve businesses they can depend on, not ones that might close due to owner... instability.”

The door chimes behind her exit, leaving my coffee shop in stunned silence.

Caroline stares after her with obvious confusion, Mrs. Hensley looks ready to commit violence, and Jessica’s hands have clenched into fists that suggest she’s calculating whether assault charges would be worth the satisfaction.

“What a…lovely lady…” Caroline says, deadpan.

“Caroline.”

“I mean it. That was completely uncalled for.”

Mrs. Hensley nods with vigorous agreement. “That woman has been looking for ways to undermine local businesses since she moved here. Using your personal situation to advance her own agenda is despicable.”

The support should comfort me, but instead it highlights how exposed I’ve become. How my private heartbreak has turned into public vulnerability that people like Penelope can exploit for her own advantage.

“She’s not wrong though,” I say quietly. “I did let personal feelings compromise professional judgment.”

“No,” Jessica says with fierce conviction. “You tried to build something better than purely transactional business relationships. That’s not a character flaw, it’s evidence that you’re a human being with a heart.”

“A heart that apparently makes me a liability in small-town business competition.”

“Michelle—”

My phone buzzes against the counter. Grayson’s name appears on the screen, and my chest clenches with the reflexive hope that maybe he’s calling to explain, to take back this morning’s devastating dismissal, to prove that I misunderstood his motivations.

“Don’t answer it,” Jessica says, reading my expression.

“I’m not going to.”

But I don’t decline the call either. I let it ring through to voicemail while everyone in the coffee shop pretends not to notice my obvious internal struggle.

The voicemail notification appears immediately. My finger hovers over the playback button while Jessica shakes her head and Caroline watches with fascinated attention.

I delete the message without listening.

“Good choice,” Jessica says.

“Is it? Because now I’ll spend the rest of the day wondering what he wanted to say.”

“Nothing worth hearing, apparently, or he would have said it this morning instead of delivering a professional breakup that left you in pieces.”

The brutal assessment lands with uncomfortable accuracy. Because that’s exactly what happened—a professional breakup delivered with corporate efficiency designed to minimize emotional fallout.

For him.

For me, it’s just another reminder that my ability to separate business from personal feelings apparently doesn’t exist.

“I should get back to work,” I say, tying my apron with hands steadier than they deserve to be. “Orders don’t fill themselves.”

“Michelle.” Mrs. Hensley’s voice carries unusual gentleness. “That young man has been coming here every morning for years. People don’t build that kind of routine around places that don’t matter to them.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I was just conveniently located between his hotel and wherever else he needed to be.”

“You don’t believe that.”

I don’t. But believing anything else requires admitting that Grayson Reed might actually care about me, which makes this morning’s dismissal even more devastating. Because choosing professional safety over a person you care about isn’t protection—it’s cowardice.

And I’ve had enough of both for several lifetimes.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of routine customer service and concerned glances from regulars who clearly know something happened but are too polite to ask directly.

I make coffee, process payments, smile when appropriate, and avoid thinking about the voicemail I deleted or the way Grayson’s voice sounded when he called me a professional liability.

By closing time, exhaustion has settled into my bones like a familiar ache. The kind that comes from maintaining emotional control while everything inside you screams that you’ve been hurt again by a person you trusted not to hurt you.

“You should come to book club tomorrow night,” Jessica says as we flip chairs onto tables and begin the evening cleanup routine. “We’re discussing second chances and whether some risks are worth taking.”

“How perfectly on theme.”

“Or you could skip the literary discussion and just let us get you drunk while we plot Penelope Water’s social destruction.”

The suggestion almost makes me smile. Because if anyone could orchestrate social warfare with surgical precision, it would be the women of Bookaholics Anonymous. They’ve been practicing character assassination through literary criticism for years.

“Tempting. But I think I need to process this disaster privately before I subject you all to my emotional wreckage.”

“Your emotional wreckage is always welcome. That’s what friends are for.”

The simple statement hits harder than it should. Because Jessica’s right—friendship means showing up for the disasters as much as the celebrations. Means letting people see you broken and trusting them to help with the rebuilding.

I’ve been too independent for too long. Protected my heart so carefully that I forgot how to let people help when protection fails.

“Tomorrow night,” I promise. “But I’m bringing wine. Lots of wine.”

“Deal.”

After Jessica leaves, I stand in my empty coffee shop surrounded by the community space I’ve built from nothing, twice now.

The bulletin board covered with local announcements.

The reading corner where Caroline does homework and Mrs. Hensley holds court.

The espresso machine that’s been my anchor through every challenge.

Tomorrow I’ll start figuring out how to compete with chain stores and licensing programs designed to eliminate local businesses. How to rebuild professional relationships without personal complications. How to protect what I’ve created without isolating myself from everyone who might help.

Tonight, I’m going to go upstairs, pour myself a generous glass of wine, and allow myself exactly one night of self-pity before I start figuring out how to survive Penelope’s latest attack and my own spectacular failure to learn from past mistakes.

The voicemail notification still glows on my phone screen.

I delete it again without listening, because some conversations end when they end, and trying to extract additional meaning from emotional devastation just prolongs the recovery process.

Grayson Reed made his choice this morning.

Now I have to live with mine.