Page 7 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

The public comment parade stretches for nearly an hour.

Economic supporters speak up—families needing jobs that don’t require hour-long commutes, young couples eyeing moves to bigger cities, retirees worried about declining property values.

But Michelle’s army dominates: longtime residents, business owners, families who value the kind of place where everyone knows your name and half your business.

Caroline Sanders, Michelle’s apprentice in world-saving, approaches the microphone with practiced confidence.

She looks straight at me, and Michelle’s influence is written all over that steady, unflinching gaze.

“I don’t want to leave Twin Waves after college.

I grew up here, and when I was having a hard time after my parents’ divorce, the town was here for me.

But I also don’t want it to become a postcard version of itself—all the charm preserved under glass while the real community gets priced out. ”

She pauses before delivering what feels like a personally targeted question: “Can’t development serve the people who actually live here instead of the people who might visit here?”

The applause for Caroline is even louder than what Michelle received, probably because half the audience helped heal her after her parents’ divorce and the other half taught her in Sunday school or hired her to babysit their kids.

Mayor Waters finally calls mercy after promising additional community input sessions that nobody appears excited about.

As people file out, conversations continue in tight clusters throughout the room.

Battle lines are clearly drawn: economic necessity on one side, preservation at all costs on the other, with plenty of folks caught somewhere in the middle trying to figure out if there’s a third option nobody’s mentioned yet.

Scott materializes beside me like he’s been waiting for the crowd to thin out. “Well. That was educational.”

“Could’ve been worse,” I say.

“The Cooper kid asked a fair question,” he admits with grudging respect. “About serving existing residents first.”

Michelle accepts congratulations from her troops, and an uncomfortable knot forms in my chest. She has this way of making every person feel important and heard, and I’m beginning to understand why the whole town would follow her into battle against whatever threatens their community.

“I keep thinking about sustainable development,” I say, which surprises me almost as much as it surprises Scott.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sustainable how?”

“Development that builds on what’s already here instead of replacing everything.” The words feel strange but right, as if I’m finally saying something I’ve been thinking without recognizing it. “What if sustainable development means working with the community, not around it?”

Scott studies my face with fifteen years of friendship and business partnership behind his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not catching feelings for the opposition leader.”

Across the room, Michelle glances up from her strategy huddle with Jessica and Amber. Our gazes meet for a split second, and electricity passes through me.

“Of course not,” I tell Scott, adding another lie to my growing collection of self-deceptions. “Just thinking about different approaches to community development.”

“Right.” Scott doesn’t sound convinced, probably because I’ve never been particularly good at hiding my thoughts from him. “Just remember we have investors expecting a certain return on their investment. This isn’t a charity project.”

Outside, the fall night air hints at winter underneath the salt breeze.

Most folks have scattered to their cars and trucks, but Michelle lingers on the community center steps with her core team.

She’s probably doing whatever community leaders do when they’re trying to save the world one coffee shop at a time.

I should walk to my truck, drive home to my sterile apartment, maintain what’s left of my professional objectivity and emotional distance. Instead, I find myself approaching her group with all the self-preservation instincts of a moth flying directly toward flame.

“Ms. Lawson.” I aim for polite professionalism, the kind of tone I’d use with any other community leader after any other municipal meeting where I hadn’t just been thoroughly outmaneuvered.

“Mr. Reed.” She manages careful neutrality, but curiosity flickers in those brown eyes. “How do you think that went?”

Caroline give Grayson an amused glare.

“Caroline,” Michelle warns, but she’s fighting a smile.

“Your presentation was impressive,” I tell her, because honesty feels safer than whatever else wants to come out of my mouth. “You really know this community.”

“So was yours,” she replies with what sounds like genuine appreciation rather than polite social noise. “I liked the ship’s wood details in those renderings. Shows you’re paying attention to what makes this place special instead of trying to impose some generic development template.”

We're being aggressively polite. I have no doubt we are both terrified of what might happen if we drop the professional facade and start saying what we actually think.

“I meant what I said about preserving Twin Waves’ character,” I continue, because apparently I can’t help myself. “This isn’t about erasing what works or replacing everything with something corporate and soulless.”

“Then what is it about?” The question carries real curiosity rather than accusation, which is more dangerous than hostility because it invites actual conversation.

Several safe, professional answers present themselves before I settle on dangerous honesty. “You know what? I’m not entirely sure anymore. When I started this project, I thought I knew exactly what Twin Waves needed. Now I’m wondering if I should have asked what Twin Waves wanted.”

Michelle tilts her head, studying me with intensity. “That’s either refreshing honesty or excellent strategy designed to make me lower my guard.”

“Probably both,” I admit, which makes her laugh—a genuine sound that does unfortunate things to my heart rate and definitely catches Scott’s attention from across the parking lot.

Jessica appears beside Michelle with perfect timing, like she’s been observing this interaction and decided it needs managing. “We should head out. Early morning tomorrow, and you still need to finalize the petition language.”

“Right,” Michelle says, but she doesn’t immediately move to leave. “Mr. Reed, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What made you choose Twin Waves for this project? I mean, there are plenty of coastal communities that would probably welcome development with fewer questions and less organized resistance.”

It’s a fair question, and several answers present themselves that don’t reveal more about my personal feelings than I’m comfortable sharing with the leader of the opposition while Scott hovers within earshot.

“At first, the research made it look simple—good tourism potential and not much existing development to get in the way.”

“At first?” she repeats, catching the words I probably shouldn’t have emphasized. “What about now?”

The community center, the cars and trucks in the parking lot, the small groups of residents still talking on the steps. Caroline, who’s observing this conversation with fascinated attention. Michelle, who’s waiting for an answer with patience.

“Now I think Twin Waves might be the kind of place where people could actually belong,” I say, immediately regretting the honesty.

Michelle’s expression softens slightly. “That’s either the most honest thing you’ve said since this whole conflict started, or you’re much better at strategy than I gave you credit for.”

“Definitely the first one,” I say, which is probably a mistake but feels necessary.

As they walk away, Caroline calls back over her shoulder with casual confidence, “Mr. Reed? You should really think about what Twin Waves means to you personally. Not just as a business opportunity.”

W hen I get home, Reggie greets me with a bock, but other than that, it feels too empty, too sterile. Clean lines, minimal everything, chosen for efficiency over comfort. No coffee shop warmth, no community energy, no Michelle making small magic happen with every interaction.

I pour two fingers of bourbon and settle in my favorite chair, Reggie watching over me from his perch.

Professionally, I presented solid arguments backed by real data. The economic benefits are legitimate, job creation substantial, tourism potential significant. But Michelle’s questions stick. Development for whom? Progress toward what? Building community or bulldozing it?

Scott keeps warning me not to get emotional about this project, but that ship sailed somewhere between morning espresso and municipal warfare.

Michelle has gotten completely under my skin—not just her opposition to my project, but her genuine investment in Twin Waves’ wellbeing.

Her ability to see everyone as worthy of consideration.

Her intelligence and passion and the way she fights for what matters.

I’m attracted to her competence, which spells either excellent judgment or complete professional disaster.

My phone buzzes.

Scott: Good presentation. Don’t let them mess with your head. Remember the timeline.

Too late for that advice.

Reggie flies down to the floor and jumps on the sofa beside me, his wings beating furiously. He pecks at my watch, one of his favorite ways to greet me.

“Hey, boy. You hungry again?” I pet his soft feathers and glance over at his food container. Still full. Maybe he’s just sensing my mood tonight.

He squawks and flies away as if my petting has offended him. Finicky fellow has more mood swings than a woman with PMS.

I finish my drink and consider the coming weeks. More meetings, more pressure, more opportunities to study Michelle rally her troops while I argue for progress. More chances to pretend this is strictly business while drowning in awareness of her every gesture.

I never paid attention to how her eyes light up when she talks about community events or acknowledged how she remembers everyone’s coffee preferences. Never considered that I look forward to those morning conversations for reasons having nothing to do with caffeine.

Now I can’t stop paying attention, and it’s becoming a problem.

Tomorrow, I’ll drive past Twin Waves Brewing Co. and see her through the window, probably serving commuters with the same warmth she’s shown me. I could stop in, order my usual double espresso, pretend tonight never happened.

But everything’s changed. She’s not just the barista who makes perfect coffee anymore. She’s the woman who showed me what real community leadership looks like. Who fights for her beliefs with intelligence and grace. Whose approval I apparently care about more than I recognized.

Caroline’s words echo: Think about what Twin Waves means to you personally.

I have been thinking about that. About how this little coastal town feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived. About how Michelle’s coffee shop represents what I didn’t know I was missing. About how fighting her feels wrong, even when professional obligations demand it.

About how somewhere between opposition and attraction, I started wanting what I haven’t wanted in years: to belong somewhere that matters. To someone who matters.

And whether Michelle Lawson could ever see me as anything other than the enemy trying to destroy everything she’s built.