Page 15 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
“Three weeks,” he says, turning slightly, the sunlight casting heat across his expression. His jaw tightens, and even from here, I can see the furrow of his brow as he listens. “No. We’re not chasing competitors. We do this right, or we don’t do it at all.”
It’s not just what he says—it’s the way he says it. The quiet command threaded through every word. The unshakable calm that tells you he’s used to getting exactly what he wants. The particular timbre of his voice does dangerous things to my pulse.
When he returns to his seat, the relaxed man savoring coffee is gone. What’s left is sharper, more dangerous—a wolf slipping back into its skin but still carrying the scent of the hunt.
He sits, the sweater stretching over his chest as he leans to adjust the laptop. My eyes betray me, tracking the way his forearm flexes, the way his fingers curl around the edge of the table like he could crush it if he wanted.
Heat blooms low, sudden and insistent, chasing up my spine and settling just beneath my ribs. My hands fuss with a stack of mugs that don’t need straightening, anything to keep from staring at the man who just turned a simple phone call into something I felt in my bones.
His jaw is still hard from whatever decision he just enforced, but when he glances at me, some of the tension softens. I freeze under the intensity of it, wondering—not for the first time—what it would feel like to have that focus, that unshakable command, directed entirely on me.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve dated confident men before, but there’s something about him—about that calm certainty, the way he moves like he owns every square inch of space he steps into—that makes the air in here feel heavier.
Thicker.
Because a part of me knows he’s the kind of man who doesn’t just break walls. He tears them down piece by piece, then dares you to thank him for it.
And God help me, a part of me wants to know what it would feel like to have that focus, that command, turned entirely on me.
I don’t want to date him… I want to be consumedbyhim.
As if the thought drags him to me, his head lifts. That same sharp, unblinking intensity from the call locks onto me, pinning me mid-fuss with the mugs. It’s a touch without contact—warm, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
“Careful, Lily.” His voice is low, smooth, still carrying that edge of authority. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start to think you want my attention.” A pause, a slow curve of his mouth. “If you’re going to stare, you might as well pull up a chair.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I murmur, the word slipping out before I can stop it, softer than I mean it to be. “I didn’t realize?—”
One brow lifts, his gaze holding mine a fraction too long, making the apology feel like more than an exchange of manners.
The bell above the door chimes, snapping the connection.
Ruth Fletcher bustles in, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, leather jacket creaking as she moves.
Chapter 6
“Lily Brock, light of my morning.”Ruth’s voice fills the shop with its customary vigor. “Darlene’s running late, and I need a caffeine infusion before I tackle inventory alone.”
"Coming right up. The usual?"
"You know it. Double shot, minimal nonsense." Her sharp eyes scan the shop, landing immediately on Max. "Well, well. The famous new arrival has found our coffee sanctuary."
Max looks up, wariness crossing his features. "Good morning."
“Ruth Fletcher. I own The PickAxe." Ruth approaches his table with the confidence of someone who has owned Angel’s Peak’s only bar since Prohibition. "You must be Max Lawson.”
He stands, offering his hand. “Word travels fast in small towns.”
“Faster than your internet connection, I’d wager.” Ruth shakes his hand firmly. “Lucas mentioned you’d taken the Aspen Cabin. How are you finding our little mountain haven?”
“It’s… peaceful.” His eyes flick to me, lingering just long enough to warm my skin. “With unexpected quality in unexpected places.”
Ruth’s gaze bounces between us, missing nothing. “I see you’ve met our Lily. Best coffee artist this side of the Rockies. You should see what she can do with microfoam.”
I nearly drop the portafilter. “Your espresso is coming right up, Ruth.”
“No rush, darling.” Ruth settles herself at Max’s table without invitation. “So, Mr. Lawson, what brings a tech genius to our humble mountain town? Besides the obvious escape from Silicon Valley vultures?”
His posture stiffens almost imperceptibly. “Work. And the vultures, as you say, are everywhere—not just in California.” His gaze slides back to me, slow and deliberate. “Though… some things here are worth the distraction.”
