Page 11 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
His eyes sweep deliberately over the room—not a casual glance, but slow and intentional, like he’s mentally mapping every detail. The mismatched vintage chairs, local artwork climbing the exposed brick walls. The copper pendant lights glowing over the wooden tables. When his gaze locks back onto me, the air feels thinner, the room smaller. Or maybe just warmer.
“I’m looking for a workspace,” he says finally, his tone even but threaded with just the right amount of charm to disarm someone not paying attention. “Minimal distractions. Excellent coffee.” He pauses, his mouth tensing slightly in distaste. “The Haven is too…”
“Busting with wealthy tourists taking selfies with overpriced lattes?” I supply, one brow lifting.
That earns me a real smile—no trace of sarcasm, no restraint. It’s devastating, the kind that ripples under your skin, low and decisive, and it takes everything in me not to flinch under its weight.
“Exactly,” he says, his eyes sparking with something that makes my chest stupidly tight. “I was told your coffee was the best in three counties.”
My lips twitch in response. “Whoever said that isn’t wrong.”
“Confidence.” His gaze sharpens again, but this time, an unmistakable hint of admiration flickers there, heating the space between us. “I like that.”
Stop. Just stop. He doesn’t get to look at me like that.
He glances toward the corner booth tucked beneath one of the big windows—the one with the view of Main Street stretching into the deep greens and whites of the mountains beyond. My booth. My refuge.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to it with a subtle nod.
I stiffen. It’s just a booth. It’s not a piece of my soul—but it feels like one. Letting him sit there is as personal as handing over keys to my house, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
“That’s my booth,”
Chapter 4
Max’s lipstilt into a slow, devastating smirk. “Your booth?” Then, his voice dips, softer but sharper, threaded with that maddening confidence that makes my pulse jump against my will. “What if I promised to keep it warm for you?”
The air between us tightens, like a string stretched too far. My mind trips over the words, imagining them twisted into something they shouldn’t be. Something dangerous. Something that ignites all the wrong kinds of sparks. And from the faint curl at the corner of his mouth, I know he knows exactly how they landed.
“It’s a free country,” I manage, my tone laced with forced indifference, turning away before my expression betrays me. “What can I get you?”
“What do you recommend?” he asks, his words deliberate, like they’re designed to linger.
I glance back over my shoulder, already irritated—half at him, half at myself—and find those piercing blue eyes waiting, unwavering. He holds my gaze like it’s the most natural thing in the world while the space around him bends, everything else fading to a soft blur.
Most people order coffee and move on. But not him. Of course not. He waits, gaze steady, as if the answer I give is some sort of test.
I let the silence stretch just long enough to regain a sliver of control. “Depends. Purist or adventurer?”
He leans subtly against the counter, close but not touching, reducing the space until I can feel him there. It’s electric, magnetic, impossible to ignore. “In coffee? A purist,” he says, the corners of his mouth threatening something between a smirk and a smile. “In life? I’d like to think I’m an adventurer.”
Somehow, the air gets even heavier, hotter, his voice dripping with double meanings I refuse to acknowledge. Refuse.
The flutter in my chest betrays me anyway—it drops lower, sinks deeper, like an anchor far too close to uncharted waters.
I clear my throat. “Let’s start with a single-origin Ethiopian, pour-over. Blueberry and chocolate notes come forward as it cools.”
The small smile shifts into something slower, rawer. “Sold.” The single word lands rough, his gaze holding mine for a beat too long, and it sounds like he’s agreeing to something larger than coffee.
The cinnamon clings sweet in the air between us, thick and clouded, wrapping tighter around the tension already coiling in my chest. The espresso machine exhales softly, a steady hum that seems to sync with the deep breath I don’t realize I needed to take until he breaks the stillness.
And for a beat—a long, charged moment neither of us moves. Even the buzz of conversation from the morning crowd fades, leaving only us.
No. Not us. There is no us. There’s just him. Standing across from me like he’s been dropped here on purpose, upsetting every carefully crafted defense I’ve worked years to build.
So I move. Quickly. Breaking the moment with a sharp inhale as I pivot to the pour-over station. The motions should center me—grinding the coffee, measuring the beans, carefully fitting the filter into place—but each deliberate shift only makes me more hyperaware of him. The weight of his presence presses with the force of a winter storm, unrelenting and impossible to block out.
Then, the scrape of a chair leg cuts across the room, a grating sound that seems to hit every nerve under my skin. I glance back toward the corner, where my booth now houses him. The sight of him settling into the cushioned seat—lanky but controlled, hands smoothing easily across the polished table—feels almost like an invasion. His laptop bag drops with a quiet thud. He owns it now. The view of Main Street. The mountains. The booth. My booth.
