Page 48 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

“There have been no inappropriate financial relationships between Twin Waves Brewing Company and Reed Development Corporation.”

“But there have been financial relationships?”

The question is designed to force me to either lie or admit to financial exchanges that could be misrepresented as improper. Grayson’s coffee shop renovations, the shared costs of project development, the intertwined nature of our businesses as our personal relationship deepened.

All perfectly legal, properly documented, and easily twisted into evidence of financial misconduct by a predator with access to partial information and malicious intent.

“Any financial relationships have been properly documented and disclosed according to standard business practices.”

Rebecca’s smile suggests she smells blood in the water. “Michelle, Channel 7 has received copies of communications suggesting there may be undisclosed conflicts between your grant obligations and your business partners’ development interests. Would you like to respond to these allegations?”

The studio lights feel blazing, the camera lens examining every flaw and failure.

David has orchestrated this perfectly—feed the reporter just enough information to raise questions without providing enough context to answer them properly.

Make me look defensive, unprepared, professionally compromised.

Make me look exactly like a woman who shouldn’t be trusted with two million dollars in taxpayer money.

“I’d be happy to address any specific concerns with proper documentation. Vague allegations without supporting evidence aren’t particularly helpful to your viewers.”

It’s a good response—professional, confident, calling out the fishing expedition while offering transparency. But I can see in Rebecca’s expression that the damage is already done. The questions themselves create doubt, regardless of my answers.

“One final question, Michelle. If irregularities are discovered that require returning the federal funding, do you have contingency plans to complete the preservation project through alternative financing?”

The question assumes guilt, assumes failure, assumes that everything I’ve built is about to collapse. It’s designed to plant doubt in viewers’ minds about project viability even if no actual problems exist.

“The grants are secure, properly managed, and will fund exactly the preservation work they were designed to support. Twin Waves will benefit from this project for generations.”

“Thank you, Michelle. This is Rebecca Santos reporting from Twin Waves, North Carolina.”

The camera stops rolling, but the lights remain blazing. Rebecca gathers her notes with satisfaction.

David Norris’s revenge, served live on evening television.

I ’m still sitting under the studio lights, processing the professional assassination I just survived, when the coffee shop door opens with enough force to rattle the windows. Grayson enters—leather jacket, helmet hair, and an expression that could melt steel.

The sight of him steals whatever composure I have left.

I’ve been holding myself together through sheer stubbornness, convincing myself that I could handle David’s threats and protect everything we built without backup.

Now Grayson stands ten feet away, and every defense I’ve constructed threatens to collapse.

He looks like a man who’s realized he made the worst mistake of his life and drove all day to fix it.

He looks like everything I’ve wanted to see for two days and have been terrified would never happen.

“Michelle.” His voice carries relief and desperation in equal measure. “Are you okay?”

The question breaks something fundamental in my chest. Not “how did the interview go” or “did David cause problems” but the only question that actually matters—am I okay?

“I’ve been better,” I manage, standing on unsteady legs.

Grayson moves toward me with careful intensity. The camera crew busily packs equipment around us, but I’m only aware of him—the familiar scent of leather and coffee, the way his eyes search my face cataloging every sign of damage.

“I saw David’s car at the hotel,” he says quietly. “I should have been here. I should have been sitting next to you during that interview.”

“Where were you?”

“I was running away.” The admission carries self-loathing that makes my chest ache. “I was scared of choosing between you and my career, so I ran instead of fighting for what matters.”

Rebecca Santos approaches with predatory interest. “Mr. Reed? Rebecca Santos, Channel 7 News. I’d love to ask you a few questions about your partnership with Ms. Lawson.”

Grayson’s attention shifts to Rebecca with laser focus. “About our professional collaboration or the allegations someone’s been feeding you?”

“Both, actually. There seem to be questions about financial relationships and disclosure requirements.”

“Questions from whom?”

Rebecca’s smile falters slightly. “Sources close to the preservation project.”

“Sources.” Grayson’s voice carries contempt usually reserved for shoddy construction practices. “Let me guess—David Norris has been very helpful with background information.”

“I can’t reveal my sources.”

“You don’t need to. Norris has been running the same scam across three states—target successful community leaders, gain access to their business plans, then create problems that require his expensive solutions.

” Grayson moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth.

“Did your sources mention his pattern of destroyed partnerships? The communities he’s left economically devastated?

The small business owners who trusted him and lost everything? ”

Rebecca’s professional composure wavers. “Mr. Reed, are you suggesting my source provided false information?”

“I’m suggesting your source is a predator who’s been using small towns as hunting grounds. And I have documentation to prove it.”

Mrs. Hensley steps forward with her manila folder, suddenly very visible to the still-rolling camera. “Channel 7 might be interested in our research into Mr. Norris’s business practices. Three states, twelve communities, forty-seven destroyed partnerships.”

Jessica joins her with a laptop. “We’ve compiled testimonials from his previous victims. Small business owners who trusted him with their plans and their hearts, then watched him disappear with everything valuable.”

Rebecca’s expression shifts as the story inverts. Instead of exposing Michelle as an incompetent grant recipient, she’s walked into evidence of a serial predator who targets community leaders.

“Mrs. Hensley, is this research available for verification?”

“Honey, we’ve got documentation that would make the FBI proud. David Norris isn’t offering legitimate business partnerships—he’s running a sophisticated con game.”

“And he targeted Michelle because her grants represent exactly the kind of success he exploits,” Grayson adds, his voice carrying protective fury that makes my knees weak.

“Two million dollars in federal funding, strong community support, and a business owner trusting enough to believe his promises.”

Rebecca signals her cameraman, suddenly interested in a completely different story. “Mr. Reed, are you prepared to provide this documentation on camera?”

“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to protect Michelle and this community from a predator.”

The words hit me like electrical current. For two days, I’ve been fighting alone, convinced that Grayson had abandoned our partnership when it became inconvenient. Now he stands beside me, ready to wage war against David Norris on live television.

Ready to fight for us when it matters most.

“Can we get this on camera?” Rebecca asks. “An interview with both of you, plus the supporting documentation?”

I look at Grayson, searching his face for any sign that this is performance rather than genuine commitment. Instead, I find something that makes my breath catch—the expression of a man who’s realized what he almost lost and has no intention of losing it again.

“Together?” I ask quietly.

“Together,” he confirms, reaching for my hand. “The way it should have been all along.”

His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and steady and completely certain. For the first time in forty-eight hours, I feel like I can breathe properly.

“Let’s destroy David Norris,” I say.

Grayson’s smile could power municipal lighting. “Now you’re talking.”

T wenty minutes later, we’re back under the studio lights, but everything has changed.

Grayson sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch, his presence steadying me in ways I didn’t realize I needed.

Mrs. Hensley and Jessica have spread their research across the counter, and Rebecca Santos wears the expression of a reporter who’s realized she’s stumbled onto a much bigger story.

“We’re rolling in thirty seconds,” the cameraman announces.

Grayson squeezes my hand under the counter. “Ready to watch David Norris’s world collapse?”

“I’ve been ready for five years.”

“This is Rebecca Santos with Channel 7 News, reporting live from Twin Waves, North Carolina. I’m joined by Michelle Lawson, recipient of federal preservation grants, and Grayson Reed from Reed Development Corporation.

In the last hour, serious allegations have emerged about a pattern of predatory business practices targeting small communities.

Michelle, can you tell us about your history with David Norris? ”

The question I’ve been dreading becomes an opportunity to tell my story with Grayson beside me for support. I explain David’s original theft, the years of rebuilding, the grants that represented everything I’d worked to achieve.

“And now he’s returned to Twin Waves,” I conclude, “using the same manipulation tactics he’s employed across three states.”

“Grayson, you’ve provided documentation of Mr. Norris’s business practices. Can you walk us through what you’ve discovered?”