Page 52 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

JESSICA

T he Hensley House looks absolutely magical this blazing July afternoon, seven months after Grayson’s dramatic victory over Coastal Capital.

Victorian trim catches sunlight streaming through ancient live oaks, while the Atlantic sparkles beyond the wraparound porch.

Heat shimmers off the sand where white chairs form perfect rows, and I’m questioning my decision to wear pantyhose to a beach wedding.

Watching Amber walk down the grand staircase in her grandmother’s restored lace wedding dress makes me forget about melting mascara and humidity disasters.

“She looks like a queen,” Michelle whispers beside me, dabbing her eyes with emergency tissues I’ve learned to pack for every Bookaholics Anonymous emotional crisis. “Pearl would be so proud.”

I nod, throat tight as Brett’s face transforms at the altar.

The man looks like he’s witnessing a miracle, which I suppose he is.

These two were business partners pretending they weren’t desperately in love.

Now Brett watches his bride approach with reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.

The wedding party includes Mason as ring bearer, marching with the careful concentration of a six-year-old entrusted with precious cargo.

Ellen as flower girl, actually sticking to the path instead of chasing butterflies.

Tally as a bridesmaid, radiant in sage green and responsible for the dessert course of the reception.

All of us Bookaholics serve as bridesmaids, united in sage green dresses that actually flatter everyone—a minor miracle. Jo looks stunning next to Mads. Hazel glows with the satisfaction of perfect wedding planning. Michelle beams with pride for the woman who’s become like her sister.

Crew tugs at his bow tie with the expression of an eleven-year-old forced into formal wear, making me bite back laughter that would disrupt the ceremony’s serious mood.

“Mom, I can’t breathe,” he stage-whispers to Amber, loud enough for three rows to hear. “This thing is trying to strangle me.”

“You look very handsome,” Amber whispers back. “Two more minutes.”

“Two minutes feels like two hours when you’re being murdered by fancy clothes,” Crew mutters, but he stands still.

The ceremony is perfect—Brett’s voice breaking slightly on his “I do,” Amber’s radiant smile when they’re pronounced husband and wife, the explosion of rice and bubbles as the happy couple kisses.

The reception transforms the Hensley House’s interior into a coastal paradise. The Salty Pearl’s catering team—led by Tally’s masterful dessert display—serves seafood from their own restaurant, paired with a three-tiered cake that’s more artwork than dessert.

I’m helping myself to a second piece of Tally’s divine lemon lavender cake when the DJ announces it’s time for the bouquet toss. Against my better judgment—and despite being perfectly happy with my single status—I find myself herded onto the dance floor with every other unmarried woman present.

Aubrey Wheaton, the wedding planner, handles the chaos with bubbly authority despite the blazing heat threatening to wilt her crisp white button-down. Her red hair escapes its professional bun in humidity-induced curls, but she manages the crowd like a general commanding troops.

“All the single ladies, gather ‘round!” she calls out with energy that makes resistance futile. “Time for someone to catch their destiny!”

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to Jo, who’s also been recruited. “I’m forty-two years old. I don’t need destiny thrown at me in the form of overpriced flowers.”

“Says the woman who sells romance novels for a living,” Jo shoots back with a grin. “Consider this research.”

Before I can form a proper comeback, Amber turns her back to the crowd, bouquet raised high. The flowers—a gorgeous cascade of white peonies and dusty miller—seem to hover in slow motion before gravity conspires against my desperate attempt to duck.

The bouquet lands squarely in my hands.

Every woman on the dance floor erupts in squeals and applause while I stand frozen, holding flowers like evidence of a crime I didn’t mean to commit. Heat floods my cheeks as cameras flash and people cheer, but it’s the sudden, intense sensation of being watched that makes my pulse stutter.

I look up to find Scott Avery staring at me from across the dance floor with an expression I can’t quite read. His usual polished confidence seems to have short-circuited, leaving behind raw hunger that makes my breath catch.

Our eyes lock across the crowded reception, and the noise around us fades to white static. Scott’s gaze travels from the bouquet in my hands to my face with slow intensity, the look of a man seeing the answer to a question he’s been afraid to ask.

My breath catches as heat that has nothing to do with July humidity spreads through my entire nervous system. This is Scott Avery—my landlord’s partner, polished professional, the kind of man who treats every conversation like a board meeting.

So why is he looking at me like I’m the solution to a problem he’s been trying to solve for months?

L ater, fairy lights twinkle in gathering dusk while the last few guests linger over coffee and conversation. I’m helping stack cake plates when a familiar voice makes me nearly drop the entire load.

“Miss Wells.”

I turn to find Scott Avery hovering near the dessert table. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks unsettled.

“Mr. Avery.” The air between us crackles with unspoken tension. “How nice of you to notice I exist.”

“I make it a point to keep track of my tenants.” The words hit like ice water, but his voice has gone rough around the edges.

My chest tightens with fury and something far more dangerous. “Tell me, what do you think actually matters?”

“Places that serve real needs instead of selling pretty dreams.” His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there with naked hunger before snapping back to my eyes.

I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, close enough to see his pupils dilate. “How lucky that you’re here to teach me about reality.”

“Someone should.” His hands ball into fists. “Before you waste more time chasing fairy-tale endings.”

The crowd erupts in cheers as Grayson drops to one knee in front of Michelle across the lawn.

I gasp and turn to Scott. “Are you seeing this?” I cheer and clap when she says yes. “It’s about time, you two,” I call out.

Michelle and Grayson are embracing and kissing now, and I can’t help the uncomfortable feeling of loss that snakes through me unexpectedly. Loss for something I never had.

Scott’s breathing has turned ragged, the way his control is unraveling thread by thread.

“Don’t you dare dismiss their happiness,” I whisper, stepping back before I do something catastrophic, “just because you’ve decided love is worthless.”

For one electric moment, his mask slips completely. I see the man beneath the polish—hungry, conflicted, burning with the same impossible attraction that’s been driving me slowly insane.

Then his walls slam back into place. He straightens his tie with military precision. “Enjoy your flowers, Miss Wells.”

He vanishes into the crowd, leaving me breathless and buzzing with equal parts rage and desperate want.

“What was that all about?” Michelle appears at my elbow, glowing with engagement bliss. “You look like you want to either murder him or drag him behind the nearest garden shed.”

“That was my landlord explaining why my life’s work is a waste of time.”

“Honey, that man looked at you like you were the answer to a prayer he’s been too proud to pray.” Michelle grins. “Classic enemies-to-lovers setup. You’re going to drive each other absolutely insane.”

I clutch the bouquet tighter and watch Scott’s broad shoulders disappear into the crowd, wondering why every word from his mouth made me want to prove him wrong in the most spectacular way possible.

And why does my chest feel completely empty now?