Page 8 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start (Twin Waves #2)

FIVE

MICHELLE

I ’m in my third hour of what Caroline calls “The Great Coffee Machine Staring Contest,” which sounds infinitely better than “Michelle Has Lost Her Mind Over the Most Dangerous Man in Twin Waves.” The coffee machine is winning by default because it doesn’t make my pulse race with one predatory glance.

My stomach still feels hollow, jittery with too much caffeine and not enough answers.

Every time I think about his voice cutting through yesterday’s committee meeting, my chest tightens like a belt’s cinched around my ribs.

My hands want to move—wipe counters already clean, rearrange napkins into perfect alignment—but I force them flat against the counter, pretending I’m calm while my nerves snap like live wires.

“Most people make coffee by actually using the equipment,” Caroline observes from her homework pile. “But telepathic brewing could be your new superpower.”

Caroline lifts her phone. “One for the shop page—community partners hard at work.”

Grayson angles his body away on reflex. “Don’t put me on the internet.”

“It’s just Stories,” she says.

“That’s still the internet,” he mutters, setting his mug dead-center over the phone camera like it’s a safety cap.

“I’m processing yesterday’s committee meeting.” I try to sound composed despite the chaos banging around in my chest. “Planning for community development opportunities.”

“Is that what we’re calling your complete meltdown over Grayson Reed being insufferably attractive while arguing municipal policy?”

She’s devastatingly accurate, but admitting that feels like surrender.

“I prefer ‘tactical assessment of collaborative challenges.’ A completely normal response to working with another who treats smiling like a personal weakness.”

“Right. And I’m studying calculus for recreational pleasure.”

The bell chimes ominously, and my pulse leaps like it’s been waiting all morning for the sound.

Grayson. Of course. His usually immaculate dark hair is disheveled—clear evidence of frustrated fingers dragging through silk strands. There’s a coffee stain on his white shirt, and the sight triggers an unexpected spike of territorial irritation that I immediately bury with a smile.

“Morning, Grayson.” My voice carries just enough edge to qualify as professional courtesy. “Exploring other coffee establishments, I see.”

He stops dead, eyes narrowing at my tone. The air between us shifts, charged with the kind of electricity that should require safety warnings.

“Michelle.”

Just my name, delivered like a dark promise wrapped in velvet. The single word makes my spine straighten and my carefully maintained composure crack slightly.

“I realize I’ve committed the unforgivable sin of disrupting your sacred morning ritual,” he continues, approaching my counter.

He produces a folder that looks like it survived natural disasters, and my treacherous heart performs elaborate gymnastics that have nothing to do with municipal planning. “I’ve done some research on coastal agriculture I wanted to share with you.” He hands me the folder.

I suck in a breath, examining papers that represent hours of work. Hours he spent thinking about what I said, what I care about. “This is incredibly thorough. Look at all this soil composition data, drainage system analysis...”

His scowl deepens, heat banked beneath the gruff. “I spent half the night trying to figure out why you looked at me like I’d proposed bulldozing an orphanage.”

“That wasn’t disapproval.” My laugh comes out sharper than I intend. “That was passionate civic engagement. I care about preservation and community spaces.”

“Passionate,” he repeats, testing the word. “You keep using it.”

Caroline snorts into her coffee. “You two realize you’re flirting, right?” Her phone is already up. “This is perfect for Instagram. Flirting captioned collaboration. The algorithm loves a narrative.”

Grayson’s jaw ticks. “Algorithms creep me out.”

“Relax. It disappears in twenty-four hours.”

“Concrete lasts longer than twenty-four hours,” he says. “So do screenshots.”

“Caroline.” Heat crawls up my neck. She’s not wrong. That’s the problem.

His jaw works like he might grunt his way out of the moment; instead his gaze pins me. “That’s… a specific assessment.” His voice is rougher than usual, like gravel shifting.

“She has a very analytical read on social dynamics,” I say too fast, trying to sand down the tremor in mine.

“Michelle.” Just my name, deliberate. It lands low, clipped and uncertain, and my knees don’t care—they go soft anyway.

His glance flicks to Caroline, then back. “And what do your social dynamics say about this?” The words come halting, as if each costs him.

“That we’re two professionals trying to collaborate,” I whisper, though it sounds unconvincing even to me.

His fingers tap once against the counter, betraying a flicker of nerves. Then, quieter: “Feels more like strategy.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t analyze anything.” But the breathless hitch in my voice betrays me.

“No?” His voice drops, rough enough to scrape against my control. “Then what… kind of analysis is this?”

The question lands heavy, and my composure fractures. Heat rushes my cheeks, and his gaze flicks toward the color like he’s caught it by accident. He doesn’t smile—his jaw just works once, tense, betraying more than he probably wants.

“The professional kind,” I manage, though it sounds pitifully unconvincing.

He huffs—almost a laugh, almost a grunt. “Professional,” he repeats, the word flat, like he’s testing it for cracks.

I whirl to the espresso machine, clinging to ritual, but my hands shake. His presence behind me is a physical thing, burning at my shoulder blades.

“Yesterday’s meeting,” he says, low and clipped. “We didn’t finish.”

The portafilter slips. The steamer shrieks, and I flail to contain the eruption. A cloud of steam explodes into the air, carrying half the napkin dispenser with it. White paper drifts down like embarrassed snow.

“Oh no,” I mutter, my usual composure cracking wide open.

Grayson moves fast—faster than I’d expect—catching mugs before they shatter. Our hands collide over one teetering cup, and the jolt that shoots through me is ridiculous. I yank back, straight into the steam wand. More fog hisses into the air.

Through the haze, a sound escapes him—low, almost startled. Not quite a laugh, not quite a growl, but it does nothing to steady my coordination.

“Need… help?” he asks at last, words rough-edged with reluctant amusement.

“Just enhancing your coffee experience,” I quip weakly, napkins clinging to my hair.

Caroline looks up, eyes shining. “Michelle, you’re literally decorated in paper products.”

I swipe napkins from my apron with what dignity I can salvage. Grayson’s eyes track the movement, sharp and unreadable, as though he’s committing the scene to memory against his will.

“Memorable,” he says finally. The word comes out tight, like it costs him something.

The rest of the morning is interruptions, each one dragging tension like an anchor. I smile, pour coffee, play professional. But every time someone cuts in, his jaw ticks, his shoulders stiffen—like the man has no patience for being thwarted.

The bell gives a prim little ding and Penelope Waters glides in on a ribbon of white-tea perfume and soft leather. Pearls. Cream blazer. Kitten heels. The kind of designer tote that could fund my espresso beans for a month.

“Michelle, sugar.” Her smile is buttered toast—warm and somehow still dry.

“Last night’s meeting was positively spirited .

The mayor said your remarks were… memorable.

” A delicate tap to her pearls, like a metronome for judgment.

“Robust discourse becomes our little town, of course. Optics do, too.”

She clocks Grayson at my counter—takes him in, head to toe, the way a jeweler inspects a stone.

“Mr. Reed.” A gracious nod. “We do love to see outside investment take such an interest in heritage properties.”

“Ms. Waters,” he returns, voice sanded smooth.

Penelope turns her smile back on me. “A teensy, perfectly boring governance note, darling—purely for optics . While certain… personal developments are in the air, a brief step back from the Preservation Subcommittee would simply sing integrity. No one would question your ethics if you continued, naturally, but donors can be so frightfully literal. I’d hate for your passion to be… misinterpreted.”

She sets a manila envelope on the counter with two manicured fingertips.

“And because last night raised such invigorating questions, the county sent along a routine compliance packet—occupancy, ADA clearances, little housekeeping matters we all forget until we don’t.

” A bright, pitying smile. “If you’d like my permitting liaison, I can text an introduction. He moves mountains.”

Heat pricks under my collar. “We’ve managed our filings before,” I say, pleasantly, because that’s the weapon I know how to use.

“Of course you have.” She pats the envelope as if she’s blessing it. “You’re a marvel of self-reliance. Do put this on today’s list. The sooner, the better.”

She orders a cappuccino “ truly dry, but silky ,” and pays with a black card.

At the door she glances back, pearls clicking once. “We all want what’s best for Twin Waves.” The smile never reaches her eyes. “Welcome to the work, Mr. Reed.”

The perfume lingers long after the door shuts. So does the envelope, bright and heavy as a threat.

Grayson’s jaw tightens; a tendon jumps. “Private review of those committee materials?” he asks, voice low enough to be mistaken for patience.

I slide the envelope under the counter like it might bite. “Caroline, can you cover the shop for a minute?”

“You got it, boss lady.”

We take the folder to the back room, and the air between us follows—hot, inevitable.

The space feels impossibly intimate when he closes the door behind us, trapping us with nothing but coffee supplies and enough unresolved tension to power the entire building.