Page 13 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
The heat of his gaze follows me everywhere: the way I shift my weight when I lean over the counter to grab a towel, the absent flick of my wrist when I tidy the espresso machine, the nervous habit of tucking my hair behind my ear. It’s like every movement I make feeds whatever equation he’s solving in his head.
I scowl at myself. He’s just a guy. A customer. Nothing more. Yet somehow, he’s managed to crawl beneath my skin in less than 24 hours, making me irritable, restless, and far too aware of him.
“Good coffee,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the music in the shop. It takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to me—not to his phone, not someone on the other side of a screen, but me.
I glance up, caught off guard. He’s holding the cup now but hasn’t lifted it—still waiting, still patiently following my instructions. But there’s something in his expression that makes it impossible to dismiss. Like he’s not just talking about coffee, even though he hasn’t tasted it yet.
“You haven’t had it,” I point out, crossing my arms and leaning back slightly to regain some semblance of control.
“That’s not what I meant.” His lips curve again, but this time the smile reaches his eyes, softening the austere angles of his face in a way that’s almost devastating. And completely uncalled for.
The words hold steady in my chest, untethered from whatever meaning they’re actually supposed to have, and I don’t dare dig deeper because I know he’ll have an answer ready.
“I hope it lives up to the hype,” I say instead, fighting for tone territory between sharp and disinterested.
“I’m sure it will,” he replies, not breaking the steady, burning contact of his gaze.
Another customer—a regular named Pete—walks in, and I nearly break out into applause for the rare intrusion. Pete greets me with a wave, but it feels too casual, too far removed from the tension radiating between me and Max, who’s sitting entirely too still, entirely too aware of the break in our bubble.
“Be right with you, Pete.” I retreat to the register, only half-conscious of Pete’s cheery small talk while I punch in his regular order. The tension pulls taut again as Pete moves on, glancing curiously around the space but mercifully planting himself at the opposite end of the café with his coffee.
When I glance back toward the booth, Max has finally lifted the cup to his mouth. The smallest of sips, slow and savoring.
The moment feels heavier than it should. Why? Because of the way his eyes flicker up over the rim, catching mine mid-sip? Or the way he sets the mug down like it’s the only thing in the world worthy of attention right now?
“Good coffee,” he says again, this time with finality. And something else. His voice carries a weight, a quiet kind of authority that makes me hate how much I care about his opinion.
I busy myself rinsing out a pitcher, but my mind keeps circling the moment like a bird over prey. Too much tension. Too much heat. He feels like a spark in dry tinder, an inevitable wildfire waiting for one careless breath.
A soft chime breaks the moment—his phone lights up on the table. He doesn’t glance at it right away, but then it buzzes again. His expression tightens by a fraction, and the shift in his energy makes my stomach drop.
Something changes in his face. The sharp confidence—the deliberate focus on me—fades, replaced by something colder. The glint in his eyes dulls as his jaw tightens, and he taps his phone screen to silence it.
He exhales roughly, muttering under his breath, “Not now.”
“What’s wrong?” The words are out before I can stop them.
His gaze lifts sharply, locking onto me from across the space, and for a moment, the weight of it pins me. My heart stumbles in reaction, suppressing the wild urge to step toward him.
“Nothing,” he says, smooth but clipped.
But I know that’s a lie.
And the look he gives me before turning back to his laptop says that maybe, just maybe, whatever's creeping into his world will burn its way into mine.
Chapter 5
The restof the morning brings a steady stream of customers—the mid-week rush hour that keeps me moving between the espresso machine, register, and pastry case without a moment to breathe. I fall into the familiar rhythm, each drink a practiced sequence of movements, each customer interaction a well-rehearsed dance. The noise, the pace, the quick back-and-forth with locals—it’s all comfortable.
Automatic.
And yet, nothing about today feels normal.
Through it all, I’m hyperaware of Max’s presence in the corner booth. Occasionally, I catch him watching me over the top of his laptop, his gaze thoughtful, assessing. It’s not the kind of distracted staring of someone who’s zoning out.
No, it feels far too intentional.
And worse, the look isn’t impatient or displeased—two things I’d expect from some big-shot tech guy stuck in a small-town café. Instead, it’s laced with quiet curiosity, like he’s figuring out how all the pieces of me fit together. The idea of him puzzling me out sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
