Page 44 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

David: Looking forward to working together again. The grant applications you filed are very impressive.

My blood turns to ice. David has access to my grant applications—documents containing detailed project plans, budget breakdowns, community development strategies. Everything Grayson and I worked on together.

Another text arrives.

David: Your collaborative approach with local contractors is particularly innovative. I’m sure we can improve on that model.

He’s not just threatening to interfere with my grants. He’s planning to steal our entire development approach and use it elsewhere. Again.

I dial Grayson’s number for the first time since yesterday’s disaster.

Straight to voicemail.

“Grayson, it’s Michelle. David Norris is in Twin Waves. He knows about our grants and development plans. He’s threatening to cause compliance problems if I don’t work with him. I know you’ve decided I’m not worth the complication, but I need help. Please call me back.”

I hang up and stare at my phone, waiting for a response that probably won’t come.

Mrs. Hensley pats my hand. “That man’s bad news, honey. You need someone in your corner.”

“I know. But the person I need chose his investors over me.”

“Then it’s time to stop waiting for him to grow a backbone and start protecting yourself.”

She’s right. I’ve spent the last day hoping Grayson would call and explain why he threw us away the second his business partners questioned his judgment. But David just made it clear that I can’t afford to wait for a man who’s already proven he’ll sacrifice me to save himself.

I have grants to protect, a community to serve, and a development project to save. With or without Grayson Reed.

But heavens, I wish he were here.

“ M ichelle! Sweetheart, you’re too thin!”

My mother launches herself at me before I can even close the front door, wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug that smells of lavender and home-baked bread.

“Mom, I’m fine. Really.”

“Fine? Look at you!” She holds me at arm’s length, blue eyes scanning my face with worried intensity. “When’s the last time you ate a real meal? Not coffee and those sad little muffins you sell.”

“I eat plenty?—”

“Nonsense. Come, sit. I made your favorites.” She drags me toward the kitchen, where the counters are covered with enough food to feed a small army. “Pot roast, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and that apple crisp you loved as a child.”

My father looks up from his newspaper, reading glasses perched on his nose. “Your mother’s been cooking since dawn. I told her you were coming for dinner, not preparing for the apocalypse.”

“Hush, Robert. Our daughter needs proper food.” Mom pushes me into a chair and immediately starts loading a plate. “Ever since that boy broke her heart, she’s been wasting away.”

“Grayson didn’t break my heart. He just... chose differently.”

Dad folds his paper. “Nice enough fellow. Helped me fix the porch steps last month without being asked. But he’s got no business running off when things get complicated.”

“It’s not that simple?—”

“It’s exactly that simple.” Mom plops mashed potatoes next to the pot roast. “A man who cares about you doesn’t disappear when his business gets messy. Eat.”

I take a bite, but my stomach churns from David’s visit. “Mom, this is enough food for five people.”

“You need your strength.” She examines my face critically. “And when’s the last time you slept? You have bags under your eyes that could carry groceries.”

“Gee, thanks. Really boosting my confidence here.”

“I’m being honest. Robert, tell her she looks exhausted.”

Dad glances up cautiously. “You look... contemplative?”

“Diplomatic,” I mutter.

“Smart man,” Mom says, then turns back to me. “Now, about David showing up today. Mrs. Hensley says he was asking questions about your grants.”

Mom sits beside me, immediately reaching to smooth my hair. “Men always think they can waltz back into your life when you’ve built something successful.”

“Speaking from experience?” Dad asks with raised eyebrows.

“Your father had to compete with three other suitors,” Mom announces proudly. “I was quite the catch.”

“Still are,” Dad says automatically, then looks alarmed at his own honesty.

“Smart man,” Mom says, then turns back to me with laser focus. “Now, about that snake David showing up today. Mrs. Hensley says he was sniffing around your grants like the predator he’s always been.”

“He wants to ‘partner’ with me. Which really means steal my work and take credit for it. Again.”

“Of course it does. That manipulative parasite never changes.” Mom’s voice could strip paint. “And where’s your contractor boyfriend during this crisis?”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. He was for exactly one day before he decided I was a professional liability.”

“Oh, he cares,” Dad says dryly, not looking up from his paper. “Mrs. Hensley’s been providing detailed reports about your... public displays of affection.”

Heat floods my face. “Dad!”

“Apparently you two put on quite a show outside the coffee shop last week. And again at the town meeting. Mrs. Hensley said the chemistry was so intense she needed to fan herself with the agenda.”

“We did not put on a show?—”

“Honey,” Mom interrupts with a knowing smile, “half the town saw you kiss that man like you were trying to consume his soul. Caroline posted about it on Instagram with heart-eye emojis.”

I bury my face in my hands.

“The kissing looked very promising,” Mom continues cheerfully. “Which is why we’re all confused about why he suddenly decided you were bad for business.”

“Because his investors questioned whether his feelings for me were affecting his business judgment,” I mumble through my fingers.

“And apparently they were,” Dad observes. “Affecting his judgment so much that he panicked and chose his portfolio over his heart.”

Mom’s expression turns fierce. “After asking you to be his girlfriend? What kind of coward does that?”

“Margaret,” Dad warns, looking mortified.

“What? I’m being practical. Bad kissers make terrible husbands.”

“And how exactly would you know about other kissers?” Dad asks suspiciously.

“Before you, obviously. Don’t be jealous, Robert. You won.” Mom pats his hand absently, then refocuses on me. “So this Grayson can kiss, but he can’t stick around when you need him?”

“He chose his investors over me when they questioned his judgment.”

“Coward,” Mom declares. “Real men fight for what matters.”

“Your mother chased off two of her other suitors with a rolling pin,” Dad adds helpfully.

“They were being inappropriate,” Mom defends. “I had standards.”

“You were terrifying. Still are, sometimes.”

“Good. Fear keeps marriages interesting.” Mom turns back to me. “The point is, you deserve a man who fights for you, not a guy who runs away the second things get difficult.”

“Maybe he was trying to protect me.”

“Protect you from what? His own feelings?” Mom snorts. “Men and their emotional cowardice. They’d rather sacrifice everything than admit they’re scared.”

“I was scared too,” I admit quietly.

“Of course you were. Love is terrifying. But that’s what makes it worth fighting for.” Mom reaches over to squeeze my hand. “The question is: do you want him back?”

The honest answer burns in my throat with dangerous intensity. Because yes, I want him back with a desperation that terrifies me. But wanting a guy who told me he was falling in love with me one evening then threw me away the next feels like emotional masochism.

“We were at dinner with Brett and Amber,” I whisper, the memory still raw and electric. “He said he was falling in love with me. His voice went all low and rough, and he said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Mom’s expression softens with understanding. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Terrified. Exhilarated. Like I was standing on the edge of a cliff deciding whether to jump.” I trace patterns on the tablecloth, avoiding her knowing gaze.

“It was romantic. It was perfect. He was patient and gentle and willing to wait for me to catch up to where my heart was already running.” The bitterness creeps into my voice.

“And then he decided our relationship was a ‘professional mistake’ that compromised his business judgment.”

Mom reaches across the table, capturing my restless fingers. “What changed?”

“His investors questioned whether his feelings for me were affecting his business decisions. And apparently the answer was yes, they were affecting his decisions—so much that he needed to end things rather than risk his professional reputation.”

Dad looks up from his paper. “That’s not love, honey. That’s a man who panics when emotions interfere with his carefully controlled world.”

The observation hits me like cold water. “But what if he was protecting both of us? What if loving someone who needed time to catch up felt too risky?”

“Then he should have fought for you,” Mom says with fierce certainty. “Real love doesn’t retreat the moment it encounters complications. It finds ways to work through them together.”

The truth settles in my chest with painful clarity. Grayson didn’t leave because I was too slow to reciprocate. He left because when his professional world collided with his emotional world, he chose the safe, predictable option over the terrifying, beautiful possibility of us.

“I don’t know if that’s even possible anymore.”

“Everything’s possible until you stop trying.” Mom stands and starts clearing dishes with determined efficiency. “Now, what’s your plan for dealing with this David situation? Because whether Grayson comes to his senses or not, you can’t let that predator destroy what you’ve built.”

The shift in topic snaps me back to immediate reality. David’s threats. The grants. The interview this afternoon.

“Honestly? I have no idea. He knows everything about our grant applications, our development strategies. He could cause serious problems if he wanted to.”

“Then you need allies,” Dad says quietly. “Legal help, community support, and documentation of everything he’s threatened.”

“Grayson should be here,” Mom mutters, scraping plates with aggressive motions. “Running off while you handle his mess.”

“This isn’t his mess anymore. He made sure of that.” The words come out sharper than intended, but they’re true. “I need to protect myself and this project without him.”

“Good.” Mom pauses in her cleaning, meeting my eyes with fierce determination. “You know what you need?”

“More food?” I guess weakly.

“A strategy. And backup. David thinks you’re alone and vulnerable. Time to prove him wrong.” She sits back down, leaning forward with tactical intensity. “Tell me everything about this interview. What questions will they ask? What could David use against you?”

For the first time since David walked into my coffee shop, I feel a spark of my old fighting spirit returning. Mom’s right. I can’t control what Grayson does, but I can control how I respond to David’s threats.

“Channel Seven will want to know about project management, compliance oversight, how I’m handling federal funding requirements.” I straighten in my chair, mind sharpening. “David knows I’m managing this alone now. He’ll try to make me look incompetent or overwhelmed.”

“Then we make sure you’re neither.” Mom’s smile turns predatory. “What documentation do you have? Who else knows about these grants? Who can vouch for your competence?”

“Jessica knows everything about the business side. Mayor Waters approved the applications. Mrs. Hensley has been tracking every detail through the town gossip network.”

“Perfect. Community support, official backing, and witnesses.” Mom ticks off points on her fingers. “Now, what’s David’s weakness?”

The question catches me off guard. “His weakness?”

“Every predator has one. What does he want most? What would hurt him if he lost it?”

I think about David’s smooth confidence, his expensive suit, his calculated threats. “His reputation. His business depends on looking successful and trustworthy. If people knew what he really was...”

“Then that’s where we hit him.” Mom’s expression turns satisfied. “Today you survive the interview and document his threats. But soon, we make sure everyone knows exactly what David Norris is capable of.”

Dad looks up with amused concern. “Should I be worried about what you two are planning?”

“Probably,” Mom and I say in unison.

Despite everything, David’s threats, Grayson’s emotional abandonment, the crushing weight of protecting something I built alone, I find myself smiling for the first time since yesterday’s disaster.

“You’re right. I can’t control what Grayson does, but I can control what happens next.” I stand up, feeling stronger than I have in hours. “And what happens next is I show David Norris that Michelle Lawson doesn’t go down without a fight.”

“That’s my girl.” Mom beams. “Now go ace that interview and make it clear to everyone watching that Twin Waves is in excellent hands.”

For the first time since David walked into my coffee shop, I feel like I might not just survive whatever comes next. I might actually win.