Page 5 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

Welcome to small-town life, where everyone knows everyone else’s business, family history, and preferred coffee modifications. Charming until it becomes terrifying.

“The same dude,” Caroline says to her stepsister, Lila. “You should have seen him the other day when Michelle realized it was him who wanted to decimate this place.”

“Wow. That’s...” Lila hesitates like she’s searching for adequate vocabulary. “Awkward doesn’t remotely cover this situation.”

Understatement of the millennium. “He claimed genuine surprise when I confronted him the other day. Says he didn’t realize I owned this place.”

“Oh, whatever,” Caroline says, rolling her eyes.

“Can’t analyze this now,” I say, focusing on the espresso machine instead of Lila’s concerned expression. “Need to strategize fighting this development.”

“What if you relocate somewhere?” Caroline asks.

The question I’ve been avoiding hits uncomfortably. “Relocate where? Have you seen any affordable commercial space in Twin Waves? This building works because it’s old and quirky and the plumbing makes interesting noises. Everything else costs triple what I can afford.”

“What about a business partnership?” Lila suggests. “Like get someone else to help out with the expenses and whatnot.”

My head shakes automatically. “Been there, learned that lesson expensively. Partnership means trusting another person with your livelihood. I’m finished making that mistake.”

Caroline studies me. “Michelle, when you discuss Mr. Reed, you get this certain look on your face,” Caroline says softly.

“What kind?”

“You look bummed out.”

Lila turns to me. “She does, doesn’t she?”

I scrub the side of the espresso machine with unnecessary vigor. “My customer turned into my enemy. Obviously I’m disappointed.”

“Is that all he was? Just a customer?” Lila asks.

Reality is complicated, and I’m unprepared for close examination.

Truth is, I’ve gotten used to Grayson Reed being the most reliable part of my morning routine. Safe interaction without emotional risk. Even if he’s always the grumpiest one in the building.

At some point, I began anticipating those ten minutes. I noticed when he looked exhausted from late projects and got pleased about successful builds. Or when he lingered seconds longer.

I’ve been attracted to Grayson Reed longer than I care to admit, and now I feel like an idiot for thinking those feelings might be mutual instead of entirely one-sided delusion.

“He was a customer. Nothing more.”

Caroline snorts, but the afternoon crowd provides escape from further interrogation.

Mrs. Hensley sits at her usual table, updating anyone within earshot about the “development situation.”

Amber’s father stops by offering solidarity and The Salty Pearl’s fish chowder because “Amber said, ‘fighters need proper nutrition.’” Jack’s mom visits to discuss “legal options” over decaf, speaking in careful tones.

Everyone wants to help. Some express outrage. Others agree Grayson Reed should have handled this differently, though opinions vary on exactly how.

Part of me keeps replaying his expression when I said his company’s name. Genuine surprise, shock even, as if he hadn’t connected my coffee shop to his development plans until that precise moment.

Either exceptional acting or legitimate cluelessness about how his business decisions impact people he sees daily.

Neither option improves my mood.

The evening lull provides an opportunity to properly examine the demolition notice instead of skimming it in panic mode. Legal language spins my comprehension—apparently law school is required to understand that I’m being evicted from my own existence.

I’m deep in research about historic preservation possibilities when Mrs. Hensley approaches the counter, abandoning her usual table with a determined stride.

“Sugar, I’ve been thinking about your situation,” she announces, settling her considerable purse with authority. “My nephew’s a real estate lawyer up in Raleigh who specializes in development disputes.”

“Mrs. Hensley, I appreciate the offer, but legal fees?—”

“Family rates,” she interrupts with a dismissive hand wave. “Besides, that boy owes me. I kept his teenage shenanigans quiet from his mother for three years, so it’s time to collect.”

Despite everything, laughter escapes. “You maintain blackmail files on your own family?”

“Honey, I keep files on half this town. Information is currency, and I practice fiscal responsibility.”

Mads pushes open the door to the shop, crossing the room to us, her wavy auburn hair loose around her shoulders.

“Hey, Grandma.” She hugs Mrs. Hensley and then turns and greets me as well.

“You guys won’t believe what I just overheard at the beach boutique,” she says, sliding onto her usual stool.

“My old college statistics teacher, Professor Groves, was complaining about some development project on the phone, and I may have accidentally eavesdropped while restocking the sunscreen.”

My heart executes a little skip. “Accidentally eavesdropped?”

“Look, when your professor starts discussing preserving historic buildings and your friends’ shops are getting demolished, you linger strategically.

Sue me.” Mads shrugs. “Apparently, our entire waterfront district qualifies for something called ‘heritage designation’ if we can prove the community has used the space continuously for fifty years.”

Mrs. Hensley claps her hands together. “Well, I’ll be. That changes everything.”

“How do we prove continuous community use?” I ask, hope and caffeine creating an interesting buzz in my chest.

“We find documentation. Photographs, business records, newspaper articles, personal testimonies.” Mads pulls out her phone.

“Grandma, didn’t you leave boxes of old Chamber of Commerce materials in the attic of the Hensley House?

” she asks, referring to the Victorian beach house Hazel inherited from Mrs. Hensley before fixing it up with Jack.

“Mom showed me family photographs dating back to when hair was bigger and everyone wore questionable patterns. And Grandma...”

“Has preserved every newspaper clipping, business card, and community announcement since Nixon was president,” Mrs. Hensley finishes with obvious pride. “Hoarding tendencies are finally paying dividends.”

For the first time since reading that demolition notice, hope flickers instead of panic. Not quite confidence yet, but not complete despair either.

“This could actually work,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

“Of course it will work,” Mads says with confidence. “Though it requires cooperation from every business owner on the waterfront. Including people who enjoy filling out paperwork, which eliminates me entirely.”

“Including Jo,” Mrs. Hensley points out. “And Jessica.”

“They’re both already enlisted. Those ladies are ready to chain themselves to the buildings with Amber.” The memory of our book club war council produces a smile despite everything. “Turns out vintage furniture restorers have strong opinions about preserving authentic character.”

“And Amber’s restaurant depends on foot traffic from tourists who come for charm, not corporate developments,” Mads adds. “Not to mention, that you always have the Hensley ladies at your back as we manage the boutique together.” She meets her grandma’s grin. “You’ve got a solid coalition.”

Mrs. Hensley nods approvingly. “Now you’re thinking strategy instead of just emotion. Though emotion has its place too, especially when dealing with stubborn men who think logic solves everything.”

Her pointed look suggests we’re not just discussing preservation battles anymore.

“Mrs. Hensley, if you’re attempting matchmaking during a crisis?—”

“Sugar, I’ve been successfully matchmaking during crises since long before you were born. Works better than peacetime romance. Nothing makes people realize what they value quite like the threat of losing it.”

Deep in this planning session, the door chimes. I look up automatically, customer service smile ready, and freeze.

Grayson Reed stands in my doorway, looking uncertain in ways I’ve never witnessed—hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders tense, gold-flecked eyes that used to seem comfortingly steady now just reminding me he’s supposed to be the enemy.

“Michelle. Can we talk?”

Every customer in the place turns. Mrs. Hensley sets down her mug with obvious interest. Caroline glances up from her phone.

Live entertainment for the Twin Waves afternoon crowd.

“We’ve said everything necessary,” I reply, proud my voice maintains steadiness when my heart is executing complicated maneuvers I refuse to analyze.

“Have we?” He steps closer, and I catch the familiar scent of that subtle cedar aftershave that always clung to him during morning visits. “There’s been a significant misunderstanding.”

“About what? The part where you want to tear down my coffee shop, or the part where you’ve been planning it while pretending to care about my weekend plans?”

“I wasn’t pretending anything,” he says, voice carrying conviction that makes me want to believe him despite every logical reason not to. “I wasn’t planning to tear down your coffee shop specifically. I was planning waterfront development that unfortunately requires?—”

“Tearing down my coffee shop.”

“Yes.” He runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up in ways that shouldn’t be attractive when I’m supposed to be furious with him. “Not because I want to hurt you, Michelle. Because this property is essential to the project design.”

“How considerate. Destroying my livelihood for architectural reasons.”

Mrs. Hensley makes a small “hmm” sound.

“That’s not—” Grayson stops, glances at our growing audience, looks back with what might be frustration. “Could we discuss this privately?”

“Why? So you can explain how demolishing my business is actually beneficial for me?”

“So I can explain this doesn’t have to be adversarial. There might be alternatives we haven’t considered.”

“Such as?”

“Relocation assistance. First option on commercial space in the new development. Partnership opportunities that could benefit everyone.”

I stare at him, processing whether he’s actually serious. “You want to help me relocate so you can tear down my building more efficiently?”

“I want solutions that work for everyone involved. This project benefits the entire community, Michelle. Construction jobs, increased tax revenue, tourism growth that supports local businesses?—”

“At the cost of everything that makes this community worth visiting in the first place.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” I gesture around the coffee shop. “Will your upscale development have a place where neighbors actually talk to each other instead of hurrying past?”

He hesitates, and then says, “It will have modern amenities and professional management.”

“Not the same thing, and you know it.”

Silence stretches while half of Twin Waves watches our personal drama unfold.

Tension crackles between us like static electricity before a storm.

Their attention weighs on me—their expectation that I’ll either capitulate to reasonable-sounding offers or deliver cutting responses destined for local legend status.

“Michelle,” Grayson says quietly, “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But fighting this development won’t save your coffee shop. It will just make the transition harder for everyone.”

“Then at least I’ll know I tried to preserve what actually matters instead of rolling over for progress that benefits everyone except the people who live here.”

He studies my face with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. What does he see? Stubborn defiance? Hopeless romanticism? The same person who serves him coffee every morning, or a woman he never really knew at all?

“This isn’t over,” he says finally.

“No. It’s not.”

After he leaves, the coffee shop buzzes with conversation.

Mrs. Hensley holds an impromptu meeting about “development politics” and “young people today who don’t understand compromise.

” Mads shoots sympathetic looks while pretending to study her phone, clearly filing away details for future analysis.

I stand behind my counter, replaying every word and wondering why part of me is disappointed that Grayson Reed turned out to be exactly the calculating businessman I should have expected.

Even though another part noticed how his eyes looked genuinely hurt when I rejected his partnership offers.

Even though I keep remembering the way he said my name, as if it meant something to him.

The enemy shouldn’t look hurt when you reject their reasonable destruction of your life. The enemy definitely shouldn’t make you question whether you’re fighting the right battle or just fighting because the alternative means trusting again.

Outside the window, Grayson’s truck disappears down Ocean Avenue, and I can’t shake the feeling this war will be more complicated than anyone anticipated.

Including me.

Mrs. Hensley’s knowing look burns into my back as the afternoon crowd slowly returns to their conversations, and I suspect the complications have only just begun.