Page 12 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
I bite down on the urge to tell him to move and turn back to the steady pour of water over grounds, steam curling upward between us like a barely drawn curtain.
“You really know your coffee.”
His voice catches me off guard, close, cutting through the low hum of the machine and my own focused movements. Too close. He’s not sitting anymore—I don’t know when he got up, but now he’s there, leaning just slightly against the counter, his tone low and intent.
I glance up. And sure enough, he’s watching. No. Not watching. Studying. It’s like he’s taking me apart piece by piece. Not in the scalding, once-over way some men look at you. No. His focus is pinpointed. Like every movement, every pause I take is some equation he’s determined to solve.
“It’s my job,” I say abruptly, trying to sound casual as my pulse thuds hard at his attention.
He tilts his head, a faint, knowing glint in his eyes. “No.” The way he says it, soft but certain, makes my stomach twist tight.He lets the word hang in the air, heavy with things left unsaid, before adding, slower now, “It’s your passion.”
I turn back to my pour, hoping the familiar ritual cools the heat that his words ignite far too easily. But it doesn’t work. Nothing about this man fits into tidy compartments. Not his presumption, not his gaze—not even the unsettling accuracy of his observation.
Passion. I almost flinch. The last thing I need is some stranger—even an insufferably attractive one—peeking into the cracks of a part of me I’ve buried for a reason.
“It’s coffee,” I reply finally, keeping my voice steady, even. Flat. “It’s both.”
I risk a glance his way, expecting his challenge to falter. But no. If anything, his eyes burn brighter, like he’s fueling up on the sparring.
“Coffee isn’t enough to give you that spark,” he says, soft but firm. “There’s something more.”
I stare at him, hands fisting the edge of the counter before I can think better of it. “You think you know me because I make a good cup of coffee?”
“No,” he says, his tone too unshakable, like he’s not challenging me, just stating facts. “I think I don’t know you at all. And that, Lily…” His voice dips just enough to scrape against something buried deep and raw. “Is what makes you interesting.”
The water burns my fingertips as it overflows, jarring me back into reality. My jaw clenches as I set the kettle down hard and finish the pour without looking at him. I can feel his eyes on me—reading, catching far too much.
When I finally meet his gaze again, I push the finished coffee toward him. “Here’s your pour-over, Max,” I say curtly, the steel back in my voice, though the echo of my quickened heartbeat betrays me.
He watches me for a moment longer. Then, with a slight dip of his head, he takes the coffee and moves back to the booth—my booth. Or at least, it was.
And as much as his presence grates on my nerves, the worst part is realizing how much quieter the counter feels without him pressed against it.
“Let it bloom before your first sip.” I call out.
His focus shifts from me to the cup, a flicker of interest in his expression. “Bloom?” He draws the word out slowly, like it’s something that deserves to be tasted even before the coffee.
I lean against the counter, keeping my tone even as I explain. “Develop. The flavors change as it cools. If you rush, you miss out.”
His gaze snaps back to me, the cup momentarily forgotten, and I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. His head tilts slightly, and that faint, knowing smile curls his lips again.
"I see." He nods as if my advice is some profound philosophy. “Patience, then.”
For some reason, the word hits harder than it should, as if it’s not just about the coffee. As if it’s for me.
He curls his fingers around the ceramic mug, but doesn’t lift it, clearly obeying my instruction. The small gesture sends a dart of heat through my chest, sharper than it has any right to be, and when his eyes meet mine again, I know I’ve lingered too long.
“Thank you, Lily," he says, my name low and deliberate, sliding from his tongue like it belongs solely to him.
The sound of it catches low in my stomach, curling there, unwanted but impossible to ignore. I turn my back and retreat behind the safety of my counter before I do something reckless, like keep standing there, letting him look at me the way he’s already doing.
I pretend to busy myself wiping down surfaces that are already spotless. The routine is meant to calm me, but somehowI feel even more exposed. Every nerve in my body is tuned to him, tracking his movements without glancing his way.
But I can feel him. Leaning back in my booth. One hand wrapped around the cup, but still not drinking, like he’s drawing this moment out on purpose. Like he’s following my instruction to see what I’ll say—or what I’ll do.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me. Not the distracted glance of someone whose mind is somewhere else, but something far more deliberate. Deep. He’s not just watching—he’s studying. Mapping.
His focus shifts with me, the kind of attention that pulls strings beneath your skin without permission. It’s not casual curiosity. No, this is measured. Calculated. Dangerous.
