Page 14 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
I don’t have time to dwell, though, because they arrive.
Mrs. Winters and her knitting circle sweep through the door punctually at 10:30, nearly taking down a younger couple trying to leave as they charge in a flurry of hand-knit shawls and cheery greetings. They’re my favorite handful of chaos, and their weekly appearance is as reliable as the sunrise.
"The usual for everyone?" I call across the counter before they even have a chance to sit.
"Martha’s watching her caffeine," Mrs. Winters announces, shooting a meaningful glance at the smaller woman fumbling with her oversized tote of yarn. "Doctor’s orders. Something herbal for her."
I tuck my tongue between my teeth to hide my smile when Martha, sulking from beneath her vibrant purple hat, mutters, “If I can’t have caffeine, I’m at least having sugar.”
“I’ll get you something herbal that you’ll love,” I promise. “Chamomile lavender. And if sweetness is the goal, maybe one of the shortbread cookies to go with it?”
Martha brightens slightly at that. “Cookies,” she says, like the word itself is a lifeline. “Yes, please.”
I dive into their usual chaos without complaint, juggling one extra-hot chai tea latte, one half-caf mocha with almond milk, and one vanilla cappuccino, all covered in just the right dusting of cinnamon. The tea steeps, the espresso brews, and my hands move with clockwork precision as conversation swirls loud and lively around me.
When I glance up, Max has stopped typing.
Briefly, the knitting ladies’ order pulls his attention—his gaze sharp and focused as he tracks the ballet of simultaneous drink preparations. There’s no hint of mockery in his observation, only interest, as though he’s taking in the choreography of my movements the same way he evaluates everything else. But then, inevitably, the knitting circle notices him.
“You’re new,” Mrs. Winters calls across the café without hesitation, aiming her voice like a bullhorn. Max, entirely unprepared, leans back slightly in his seat, caught mid-thought. His eyes flick to her as if he’s bracing for whatever’s coming next.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers politely, inclining his head.
“You’re the tech fellow staying at The Haven, aren’t you?” Mrs. Winters presses, taking his startled acknowledgment as a license to dig deeper.
“Seems that I am,” Max responds, a faint smile pulling at his lips. If he’s irritated by her over-familiarity, he hides it well. There’s even an amused glint in his eyes, like he’s waiting to see where this is going.
“How do you find our Lily’s coffee? Better than those fancy city shops, I’d wager.”
I freeze. The espresso machine wheezes behind me, and for a split second, I consider fleeing into the kitchen and pretending none of this is happening.
But Max takes it in stride. “Significantly better,” he says, his voice smooth, warm. He glances in my direction, then, eyes catching mine briefly before he looks back at Mrs. Winters. “There’s care in every step.”
Mrs. Winters beams, utterly charmed as if Max just handed her a basket of roses. “Told you,” she announces proudly to the group. “Our Lily’s a treasure. Studied coffee science, didn’t you, Lily?”
I stiffen, managing to keep a neutral expression as I focus on finishing Martha’s tea. I’ve never been good at being the center of attention, especially when Mrs. Winters decides to highlight bits of my background. “Just years of practice,” I deflect, keeping my tone light.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Martha says, the shameless busybody chiming in. “Eleanor said you’ve got some kind of degree in coffee chemistry.”
I can feel Max’s interest sharpen from across the room, his gaze pinning me as effectively as if he’d spoken. This is exactly the kind of conversation I didn’t want him to overhear.
“Just a few courses,” I say smoothly. "Nothing special." The lie slips easily from my lips, ingrained after years of burying the truth. My past doesn’t belong here—especially not with him.
“Well, we’re proud of you,” Mrs. Winters says when I deposit their drinks. She pats my arm like a proud grandmother. “Not many people around here with your kind of expertise.”
I retreat to the counter as quickly as possible, feeling Max’s gaze burn into my back the entire way. I don’t dare look at him, but the weight of his curiosity wraps around me like a living thing.
For the next hour, I pretend he doesn’t exist—and fail spectacularly. Every time I catch the flex of his fingers on the keyboard or the slow shift of his shoulders as he stretches, he pulls my attention like gravity. Worse, I know he notices. I can feel it in the way the space between us feels warmer, tighter, whenever I glance in his direction.
And then his phone rings.
“Lawson,” he says, answering with practiced efficiency. The tone of his voice snaps something into the air—a sharpness that commands attention, even from across the room.
He pushes to his feet and moves toward the window, the sun cutting a sharp outline against him. All that lean strength wrapped in charcoal cashmere. All that certainty.
“Yes, I’ve reviewed the beta issues,” he says, pacing slowly. His tone deepens, resonant but sharp, reaching into spaces it has no right to reach. “The security protocols are my primary concern. No, I won’t compromise on that.”
I can’t stop watching him. The deliberate pace, the precise movements of his hand as it gestures lightly—it’s like he’sbending the world around him with nothing more than words. It makes every inch of my skin feel hot and tight. Too much.
