Page 22 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
So he stays.
The work feels automatic, but the air is anything but. Every movement I make feels amplified, brushing up against something unspoken that hovers on the edges of the space between us—and every time I look up, I swear I catch his eyes before they can drift away.
“Your cottage is walking distance, right?”
The question drops casually into the space. But its effect is anything but casual. I falter for just a moment, the rag pausing midair as his words land sharper than they should. “How do you know I have a cottage?”
“Ruth mentioned it.” He leans back, his sweater shifting against his broad shoulders. “Something about a colorful door you painted yourself.”
“Of course she did.” I force my hands to move again, dragging the cloth in slow circles over the table to center myself. “It’s just a few blocks. Small. Sufficient.” My tone is flat, clipped, but my mind races with the possibilities behind his question.
“Better than The Aspen Cabin,” he says, his casual tone wrapping around something unspoken. “Great view, but a longer walk.”
He rises as he speaks, slowly stretching his arms over his head. My heart trips over the sight of his sweater lifting, exposing a strip of skin, sharp hip bones carved against the waistband of his jeans. Heat flushes under my skin before I can stop it.
“The property manager keeps pushing guest mixers,” he continues, letting his arms drop as he adjusts the weight of his bag on his shoulder. “Apparently, I’m antisocial.”
I snort weakly, still stuck in the vision of him. “Imagine that.”
He chuckles low, the sound rippling under my ribs, deeper inside me. I force myself to turn, to refill a carafe, break the magnetism still simmering between us. It’s ridiculous. I’ve spenthours with him this week, but for some reason, tonight feels different.
I turn to the bar and start a fresh pot—piloncillo crumbling in my palm, cinnamon stick cracking, orange peel expressing a bright ribbon over the steam.
I cross to his table with a small clay mug. “Café de olla. Spiced. Comfort in a cup.” I set it down; his fingers wrap the heat, our hands a breath apart.
He inhales. The guarded line at the corner of his eyes eases. One sip, then another—longer—the kind of appreciation that feels like a thank-you without words, but that’s not Max’s style. “Thank you,” he adds, fingers tightening around the mug. “For this.”
“It’s what I do.” The cloth finds one last circle on the nearest table.
He rises, slings the bag over a shoulder. “And you do it extraordinarily well.” Closer now by the door, the small space pulling heat between us. “Goodnight, Lily.”
The way he says my name skims along skin. I hold his gaze a beat too long and pretend it’s the deadbolt I’m reaching for and not air.
He doesn’t offer to walk me home.
By the time the lock clicks shut behind him, I’m left in the heavy quiet of my empty shop, wiping the same counter space clean while my mind spins with the questions he never asked.
Because if he’d offered—if he’d said,Let me walk you home, Lily,in that deliberately low voice of his—I might’ve said yes. Hell, no—I’d have probably asked him inside. Just to see what he’d do.
And what I might let him do to me.
I’m almost done with closing when Darlene knocks at the back, rings of keys chiming against the glass. I let her in, one brow up.
"You're missing the party," she announces, removing her coat. "The PickAxe is packed for Doc Blake's band, and I thought you might reconsider."
"I've got inventory to finish."
"Inventory can wait. Life can't." She studies me for a moment. "Your tech boy hasn’t shown up either."
I busy myself counting coffee bags. "Not surprised. He just left the shop."
"Oh, honey." Darlene's laugh is soft. "You should’ve asked him to join you at the PickAce."
"Why would I do that?"
"You're not fooling anyone but yourself."
"Is there a point to this visit, or are you just here to offer unwanted observations about my personal life?"
