Page 21 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
That does it. A laugh breaks free from his mouth, unpolished and real, the kind that sends unexpected warmth pooling low in my belly. I watch as one hand drags through the perfectly disordered strands of his hair, mussing it just enough to make him look... touchable. The laugh eases him, loosening something I hadn’t realized had been knotted in my chest.
“Fine,” he says, his voice rich with amusement. “I’ll try to simmer in a smarter marinade.”
I should move. Take the cue, step away, leave him alone with his pondering. I should wipe tables, count beans, doanythingbut keep standing there, caught in the gravity pull that thickens the quiet around us.
Instead, my mouth betrays me. “Do your systems actually help towns like ours?” The honesty in the question is unexpected even to me. “Not just the big guys.”
His posture shifts, like I’ve caught him off guard. His shoulders settle slightly, losing some of the tension I hadn’t realized I’d been tracking. When he speaks, his voice is steady, certain, the timbre of it dropping a little deeper.
“That’s the point. Big clients can afford whole teams. Places like this…” His finger taps lightly against the mug, the soft chime of ceramic and glass filling the quiet between us. “They’re exposed. One breach can take out payroll. Bookings. Havoc for months. We build guardrails that small businesses can afford.”
The quiet conviction in his voice is unexpected, catching me off guard the same way my question did to him.
It's not rehearsed.
It's something deeper. More personal.
The more he speaks, the more I feel trapped in the orbit of him—steady and warm and far more present than I’d pegged him to be when he first walked through my door.
Warmth presses under my ribs, splintering into something inconvenient and sharp. “That’s… more decent than I gave you credit for.”
His mouth tilts into an easier smile now—softer, reaching his eyes. “Careful. You’ll ruin my tech bro reputation.”
I narrow my eyes, but a traitorous grin pulls at the edge of my lips despite myself. The fact that he clocks my bias and meets it with humor is infuriating. And appealing.
I take a calculated step back—not far, but enough. The citrus from the café de olla lingers in the air, and Max takes another drink like it’s something he needed—not just coffee, but whatever intention I put behind it.
“Good?” I nod at the glass, keeping my focus there instead of on him. Pretending that’s all I care about.
“Sharp. Clean.” He lifts the mug slightly, appraising it, but his eyes stay on mine, pinning me there with something I don’t have the will to name. “Exactly what I needed.”
The pattern holds all week. Max settles into Mountain Brew like he belongs—part espresso machine, part mountain view. People start to clock him, but they respect the invisible perimeter around the corner booth.
I start building drinks for him the way a luthier tunes a violin—tiny shifts, listening for resonance. A lavender honey latte on Monday. Maple-cinnamon cortado Tuesday. Wednesday, smoked sea-salt mocha. He always pauses, always tastes like it matters. The way his shoulders loosen when the balance hits is a problem I pretend not to notice.
Purely professional interest. The clean satisfaction of craft appreciated.
Not the prickle across my skin when he steps through the door. Not the way I time my routes—reaching past him for sugar, clearing his empty demitasse with the same hand that “accidentally” brushes his knuckles, offering a fresh cup the moment the current one cools.
Definitely not the weight of his gaze when he thinks I’m focused on the register.
Friday, Noah swings in alone near the end of the day for a quick coffee, sheriff’s jacket unzipped, spring dust on his boots. I hand over the cup; he leans in, concern tucked behind casual.
“Everything okay with your new regular?”
“Max? Just a customer.” The words come out smooth, practiced.
"Good, just checking in on you." The warning follows me into closing.
The sign is flipped to CLOSED, the room settling into soft clinks and low steam as I wipe tables. Max stays put, last man standing.
The room settles into the comfortable quiet of closing. The espresso machine lets out one last, drawn-out sigh, as though it’s just as tired as I am. The walls exhale too, soft clinks of mugs echoing in the space as I wipe tables, stray dishes finding their way to the sink.
All the while, Max stays where he’s been all day—booth occupied, laptop dark, but his frame just as steady and present as ever. A sharp contrast to the ghost of customers past.
“I can head out if you need to lock up.” His words break the quiet, a low hum that carries far too much weight in the stillness.
“No rush,” I say without thinking, glancing at him before catching frozen mid-wipe. His hand rests on his trackpad, his head tilted faintly. “Sidework left.”
