Page 20 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
Always focused, but with moments of distraction when his gaze drifts to the counter or me.
I tell myself his presence is good for business—one guaranteed customer during the slow hours.
What I don't admit is how the atmosphere in Mountain Brew changes when he's there, charged with a current that makes every movement feel deliberate, every glance weighted.
On the fifth day, I'm restocking beans when Audrey Tristan and Hunter Morgan enter, bringing with them a blast of chilly mountain air. They're holding hands, Hunter's build making Audrey look diminutive beside him.
"The feared food critic graces us with her presence." I smile at Audrey. "I thought you were in New York until next month."
"Surprise visit. The magazine's letting me work remotely more often." Audrey's smile is radiant as she glances up at Hunter. Their happiness is both beautiful and a sharp reminder of what I've walled myself off from.
"The usual for both of you?"
"You know it." Hunter's eyes drift to the corner booth, recognition dawning. "Is that?—"
Audrey follows his gaze, her food critic instincts visibly activating. "Max Lawson." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Hunter, that's the Nexus Systems founder I showed you in that tech feature last month."
I tense, preparing for the invasion of Max's privacy. But Hunter, bless him, simply nods acknowledgment. "His security software helped the restaurant upgrade our systems last year. Good stuff."
Max looks up, clearly recognizing he's being discussed. I expect him to be annoyed, but instead, he closes his laptop and stands.
"You must be Chef Morgan. Lucas Reid mentioned you're heading up the new farm-to-table program at Timberline."
Hunter seems surprised to be recognized in turn. “That’s right. This is my wife, Audrey Tristan-Morgan. She’s the real celebrity—her culinary reviews have launched more successful restaurants than my cooking.”
Max stands to meet them, grip firm, expression easy. “I read your piece on sustainable tech in commercial kitchens. Smart use of what already exists.”
Audrey brightens. “Thanks. We’re rolling some of those protocols into Hunter’s new kitchen at Timberline.”
I deliver their drinks—steam ribboning up, citrus oil shining on the cappuccino foam—and watch the exchange with a knot of confusion. Max handles the attention smoothly, but tension gathers at the corners of his eyes, a practiced calm stretched too tight.
“We won’t keep you from your work,” Hunter adds, sensing… something. “Just wanted to say your security protocols made a real difference for small businesses like ours.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Max’s mouth lifts; the smile stops short of his eyes. “That’s what we built it for.”
They drift to a window table. Max returns to the booth, opens his laptop, and doesn’t touch the keys. Distance shadows his face.
I pull a chilled bottle of tonic, twist an orange peel, and pack a double shot. Bubbles rise, amber and bright, as espresso meets ice. The glass sweats in my palm while I cross the floor.
I set it down within his reach. Espresso tonic—citrus, clean, a reset. “Try this.”
His gaze snaps to mine when I set the mug in front of him, something flickering in those cool blue eyes—a surprise that deepens into warmth, like I’ve given him more than coffee. His fingers wrap slowly around the mug, his knuckles brushing against the smooth clay, condensation from the steam beading along the curve of his hand.
It’s a casual enough gesture, but my stupid heart stumbles on the way his hand tightens around it, like he’s anchoring himself with the small comfort I didn’t know I’d meant to give.
He inhales, the faint tangle of cinnamon, piloncillo, and orange peel blending in the charged silence between us. Then, he takes a slow sip, deeper than I expect, his long throat working it down. The tension in his brow eases slightly. Another sip—longer this time—and the faint line in his jaw softens too, just a fraction.
“You okay?” The question escapes before I’m ready, barely above a whisper but heavy with meaning I wish I’d kept hidden.
His gaze shifts past me, toward the window, the pale light softening the harsh set of his jaw. “Just… work,” he says, but the pause carries weight.
There’s something more.
“Looks more like brooding.” I lean a hip against the table before I can stop myself, the closeness threading a dangerous pulse through my veins.
One corner of his mouth tips into the suggestion of a grin. “Is there a difference?”
“Thinking is productive," I counter, narrowing my eyes. “Brooding is just marinating in your own stress juices.”
