Page 19 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
The question escapes before I can reel it in. It lands softer than I meant it to, strangely open, too heavy to hang between strangers. His gaze meets mine—for longer than necessary—and then, wickedly, he smiles.
“Definitely.” The word slides off his tongue, rich with layered meaning. He pauses, gaze dipping to my lips before returning to my eyes, and something tightens low in my stomach. “If that’s all right with you.”
“It’s fine,” I manage, fighting to keep my reply even. “I mean, of course.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lily.” One corner of his mouth lifts—not a full smile, just enough to disarm me entirely. He lingers by the door, hand curling loosely around the frame, what should be a casual gesture laden with tension instead. The sharp glow of the evening sun through the window catches on the edge of him—his jawline, the rise of his chest beneath the charcoal sweater—and he looks more at ease here than anyone should have a right to.
"And Lily," he says, his voice lowering just enough to make standing still a challenge. "For what it’s worth…”
“What’s that?” I tilt my head, impatient despite myself. Or maybe impatient because of him.
He studies me, eyes lingering in a way that carries weight, like he knows things I haven’t said yet. Then he lets his lips curve, the faintest shift that shouldn’t feel as devastating as it does.
“Ruth’s right about one thing,” he murmurs, his tone honeyed now. “You are something of a sorceress with coffee.”
The way he says it vibrates through me like a low hum, warm and unsettling, and I’m too stunned to respond. He takes one last lingering look before he slips out the door, words hanging in the space he leaves behind.
I stand at the counter, gripping a dishrag like it’s a lifeline, watching the door shut softly behind him.
After he leaves, I move through my closing routine on autopilot, my mind replaying our interactions with irritating persistence. The way he watches me work. The unexpected humor beneath his professional exterior. The unmistakable tension that seems to vibrate in the air between us.
Every muscle in my body feels strung too tight, like I’ve been pacing the edge of some dangerous current waiting to be swept off my feet.
I'm wiping down the counter when the door opens again. Darlene slips in, flipping the sign back to CLOSED behind her.
"I knew it," she exclaims. "You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing. It's just warm in here." I throw the cleaning cloth at her. "What are you doing back?"
“Forgot my card,” she says cheerily, plucking it from beneath the register. “But actually,” she says, her tone dripping with mischief as she leans smugly against the counter, “I was hoping to see your face after Mr. Tall and Tech finally left. And, honey, it tells me everything I need to know.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say flatly, scrubbing aggressively at a non-existent stain on the counter.
"Mmm-hmm." She hops onto a stool, crossing her arms like she’s about to set up shop the entire evening. "So, how long has Mr. Silicon Valley been making those puppy dog eyes at you?"
"He doesn't make—this is his second day here."
"Second day?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "Girl, the electricity between you two could power the whole town. Ruth says he couldn't take his eyes off you the entire time she was here."
I pretend to count something in the register, my stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Ruth needs better hobbies. And so do you.”
"Honey, in Angel's Peak, you areourhobby." Her expression softens. "Look, I know you've got your reasons for keeping to yourself. God knows I've tried for two years to get you to open up about whatever sent you running to our little mountain town."
I tense, but she continues, her voice gentler than usual.
"I'm not asking for your secrets. Just saying that maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't be the end of the world to let someone new into that fortress you've built."
"He's here for a month, Darlene. Then he goes back to his real life."
"A month can be a lifetime." She slides off the stool. "Or at least enough time to remember what it feels like to be alive."
After she leaves, I stand in the empty shop, her words echoing uncomfortably in my mind. The problem isn't that Max will leave in a month. The problem is that for the first time in two years, I've met someone who makes me wish he wouldn't.
Chapter 8
By the third day,Max has established a pattern. He arrives at seven, orders the coffee, whatever I recommend, and works steadily until closing.
Always the corner booth. My booth.
