Page 18 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
“Inventory and ledgers don’t count as fun.” Her gaze flicks toward Max, then back to me, eyes glinting. “And neither does pretending you’re not interested in tall, dark, and techy over there.”
“I’m not?—”
“Save it.” She pats my hand with mock sympathy. “I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching. Pure chemistry. And I don’t mean the coffee kind.”
Across the room, Max’s head tilts slightly, that almost-smile playing at his mouth again. He doesn’t comment, but the subtle flush along his neck says he caught every word.
With a final smirk, Darlene sails out, leaving the shop quiet except for the steady tap of his fingers on the keys and the rush of my pulse in my ears.
For the next hour, we play our parts. He works in his corner with that maddening, unhurried focus, while I scrub counters that don’t need it. Every time I turn, I swear I catch him watching—glances that land heavy enough to make my breath catch before he goes back to his screen.
I finally give up pretending I’m not aware of him and pull a clean mug from the shelf. The air fills with the warm bite of espresso and the bittersweet drift of chocolate as I work the steam wand, layering flavors until it’s exactly the way I like it. Not too sweet. A little bite beneath the velvet.
When I slide it onto his table, the rich swirl of mocha still curling in the foam, he glances up.
“Mocha breve,” I tell him, stepping back before I can get caught in those eyes for too long. “Half-and-half instead of milk.Strong enough to keep you awake, smooth enough you won’t regret it.”
His hand wraps around the mug, but his gaze doesn’t follow. It lingers—slow, deliberate—until heat creeps up my neck. “So this is how you win people over?”
“Just being hospitable,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I like the challenge—finding the exact blend that makes someone want to come back.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to keep coming back until you figure mine out. That is… if you don’t mind me occupying this table all day.” He leans back, still watching me. “For what it’s worth, I’m getting more done here than I have in weeks. Something about this place makes it easy to work.”
“Then consider this an open invitation,” I tell him, my voice warmer than I intend. “That spot’s yours for as long as you’re in Angel’s Peak.”
His mouth curves, slow and deliberate. “Then I’ll be here from the moment the lights go on… until the lights go out.” His gaze lingers, a spark that makes the last part feel heavier.
Chapter 7
The afternoon stretches into evening,shadows creeping into the corners of the shop, softening edges until everything feels… closer. Warmer. The rush of earlier is long gone. Now there’s just me, the low hum of the espresso machine winding down, and Max—steady and solid in the corner booth.
It irritates me how aware I’ve become of his presence. How much space he seems to take up without ever crossing a line. He hasn’t said a word in hours, completely engrossed in whatever he’s typing, but every now and then, I catch his gaze drifting—watching me from beneath those dark lashes—and I swear the oxygen in the room shifts.
I expected him to be the arrogant type. Entitled. Dismissive. Most people like him barrel into a small-town coffee shop like mine, expecting instant service and somehow siphoning all the air from the room.
Max Lawson is different.
There’s something measured about him, like every glance and every word is deliberate. A pointed kind of stillness that makes you hyperaware of how much chaos you live in by comparison.
I tell myself the quiet is good. That I’m grateful for the slow hour. But the truth is, it’s maddening. Because every time I force myself to focus on wiping down the counter—every time I shift mugs, rearrange supplies, trydesperatelyto pretend he’s just another customer.
That there’s nothing brewing between us.
And worse, I feel the way that heat reaches lower, simmering in my stomach like embers waiting for a gust of wind.
The evening deepens, the sky outside cooling into gold and gray. A wintery breeze drifts in every time the door chimes, reminding me that closing time is close, edging toward inevitable.
A scattering of customers wander in and out, their steps muted as they hurry back into their lives. But Max doesn’t leave. His focus stays pinned to his laptop—but not entirely. Because somehow, in the moments my attention slips toward him, his gaze always finds mine.
Always deliberate. A slow, purposeful pull at the edges of whatever tightrope I pretend I’m walking.
At closing, Max finally powers down. The faint click of his equipment disengaging feels personal somehow, like the final notes of a quiet symphony only I’d been hearing. He packs up his sleek black cases with his usual precision—every cable rolled methodically, every small movement fluent. Confidence pours off him in waves, understated but unrelenting.
Nothing rattles this man.
“Thank you for the workspace.” His voice draws my gaze like a magnet, pulling my focus from where I’m sanitizing the espresso machine. He stands now, tall and steady, one hand flicking at his sleeve, the other slinging his bag over his shoulder. The room isn’t nearly big enough between us. “And the excellent coffee.”
“Will you be back tomorrow?”
