Page 10 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
I shake my head, touched by the offer but determined to handle my problems on my own. "I appreciate it, Sheriff, but I've got it under control."
"Offer stands." He settles his hat back on his head. "Oh, and Lily? Word of advice from someone who's seen his share of strangers coming through Angel's Peak—not everyone with money and education is out to cause trouble. Sometimes they're just looking for the same thing as the rest of us."
"And what's that?"
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "A decent cup of coffee and a place that feels like it matters." With that cryptic comment, he heads out.
The morning drifts in with the usual parade of locals. I’m arranging a fresh display of mini cinnamon lattes—replacing the casualties from yesterday’s collision. It’s all so predictable, my little bubble of peace.
Until the bell chimes.
My hands still mid-air, cinnamon dust whispering down like a spell half-cast.
He’s back.
Not just back—transformed.
Gone is the rumpled, irritated tech bro from yesterday. In his place: sleek control draped in a charcoal cashmere sweater that clings to shoulders built for hard labor—or maybe justharder things. The kind of shoulders you want to lean into, except you'd absolutely never do something so impractical.
His dark hair is artfully tousled again, but this time, it’s intentional. The kind of tousled that invites fingers, whispers promises you have no business exploring. A brand-new laptop is tucked under one arm, sleek and silver, like a postscript on the way he commands the space.
“Good morning.” His voice warms the air instantly, low and deliberate, like a secret murmured against your skin.
Heat flickers straight through me. Not because of him, of course. The espresso machine, maybe. Or the cinnamon.Definitely not him.
I quickly straighten, smoothing my palms over my apron like it’s armor. But it’s not—it’s thin cotton and absolutely no protection from the way he’s watching me. My pulse taps in my throat despite my complete lack of interest in the way his mouth curves slightly. Okay, maybe notcomplete.
“Your electronic patient didn’t make it?”
“I performed emergency surgery,” he says, each word slow and measured, the barest crook tipping his lips—a smile with a knife’s edge. “But the prognosis wasn’t good.”
I press my mouth into a thin line, trying not to let the heat rising in my cheeks betray me. “Coffee and circuitry make poor companions.”
His gaze sharpens, taking me in with careful precision. He doesn’t justlook—he observes. I don’t like the way it makes my insides knot, like he’s peeling back layers I’ve worked too hard to build.
Silence blooms, swelling in the warm, cinnamon-thick air. The espresso machine exhales a slow, sensual hiss, and the hum of conversation fades into a static nothing under the weight of him.
“I owe you an apology,” he says, taking a step closer.
Too close. Close enough, I feel the heat rolling off him, the subtle shift in air every time he moves. Like he’s breaking into my space, not with force, but something worse—effortless ease.
“Oh? For what specifically?” I ask evenly.
“For being… abrupt yesterday. Borderline rude,” he says, his tone quieter now. He pauses, watching me with unapologetic intent, soaking in every reaction like he’s calibrating himself to me.
“Borderline?” I arch a brow and cross my arms.
“My apologies for being an insensitive ass,” he says smoothly, a flicker of something self-aware collecting in his smile.
This time, I let my own mouth curve. “Collision physics tends to bring out the worst in people.”
I busy myself setting a tiny cup back on the refreshed display, but his gaze follows the motion, lingers on my cinnamon-dusted knuckles like I’ve suddenly found a way to fascinate him. And when his eyes drift up, landing on my mouth, my lips inexplicably part before I can stop them.
His voice drops an inch lower. “Still. I should have watched where I was going.”
I manage a nod, an acknowledgment without surrender, tamping down the sudden warmth curling beneath my ribs. “How can I help you today, Mr. Lawson?” My tone sharpens slightly around his name, as if to remind myself to keep the boundary intact. “Another coffee to sacrifice to the laptop gods?”
“Actually…”
