Page 24 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
It’s the way he’s chipped steadily at the veil I’ve worked so hard to keep between myself and the world.
Now the edges of it feel thin. Worn. And I can’t tell if I want to pull it tighter or just let it fall.
During a lull in customers, he breaks the soft rhythm of the café, his voice cutting through the muted hum of conversations and the hiss of steamed milk.
“Those patterns are impressive.”
I glance up to find him at the counter, leaning forward, his body relaxed but his attention sharp and singular. His arms are crossed over the breadth of his chest as those infuriating eyes settle on me.
I follow the direction of his nod to the latte art blooming beneath my steady hand. A smooth rosetta curls along the top of the foam, a quiet triumph I’ve done a thousand times before. But the way he’s looking at it—looking atme—makes it feel suddenly noticeable.
Important.
“There’s a trick to it, isn’t there?” Max keeps his voice low and steady.
For a minute, I assume he’s talking to someone else. My eyes flick to the room behind me, then back to him, and there’s a faint tilt to his mouth that tells me he knows exactly where my head is. The subtle lift of his brow feels like a private joke at my expense.
“There’s no trick.” I slide the finished latte across the counter to him. My voice is light, almost dismissive, but there’s no escaping the way Max’s focus stays locked on me, unwavering. “Latte art isn’t magic. It’s just physics and a steady hand.”
“You downplay it.” The faint curve of his lips deepens into something that feels just shy of a smirk. “But it’s not just skill, is it? It’s craft.”
I pause, wiping down the counter slowly, his words sitting between us longer than they should. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t fill the silence with anything unnecessary. He just lets me feel the weight of him.
And damn it, it works.
“There’s nothing you couldn’t learn with practice,” I say quickly, with what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. My eyes drop to the cloth in my hand, anything to get away from the way he’s looking at me. “I could show you.”
The words are out before I have time to snatch them back. Why did I say that?
He leans back, one arm sliding easily along the counter as his fingers drum lightly at the edge. Everything about the way he moves feels deliberate, like he’s calculating how far to push.
“Call me intrigued.” His voice threads with quiet amusement. “Show me.”
Before I know it, we’re shoulder to shoulder at the latte station, the tiny workspace only intensifying the quiet current humming between us.
“We’ll start you slow,” I say, pressing a milk pitcher into his hand. My fingers brush his in the transfer, the warmth of his skin sharp enough to snag my attention and throw me off stride for half a second. I pull back just slightly and pretend I don’t notice. “No hearts or tulips. Just a rosetta.”
His fingers curl around the metal handle. Up close, his hands seem too large to manage the delicate precision required for latte art. Yet there’s a steadiness there I shouldn’t find as distracting as I do.
“Hold it lightly,” I say, my voice softening as I reach up to adjust his grip. My hand covers his instinctively, guiding the motion. The moment I touch him, my heart skips—not like alittleflutter, but a full-on stumble, like it’s forgotten how to pump altogether.
His hand is strong beneath mine, warm, impossibly steady. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He just waits, watching me with a focus I can feel in my jaw, my ribs,lower.
“You’ve done this before?” I ask to fill the silence, my tone lighter than I feel.
“Never,” he admits, tilting his head slightly—but not his hand. He doesn’t need to look at me to make me feel like I’m under scrutiny, like he’s cataloging every move, every breath I take.
“Okay. Well…” I clear my throat. Focus. His proximity hammers at the edges of my concentration. “Tilt the cup slightly. It gives the milk somewhere to roll into.”
His hand mirrors mine, our knuckles brushing again, barely, but enough that heat gathers low in my stomach. I press forward, trying to force the moment into something mechanical, something professional. “Don’t rush. Just a small stream, slow and steady.”
The milk glides along the surface of the espresso, tentative but smooth, spiraling out as the soft white contrasts against the dark, glossy base.
“That’s it,” I murmur, guiding his wrist just slightly. Our shoulders are almost touching now, the space between us closing even though neither of us acknowledges it. The ribbon of milk begins to settle, curling into faint petals.
“You make it look easy,” he says, his tone low, closer than I’m ready for.
I glance up instinctively, expecting to find him watching the milk. Instead, his eyes are locked on me.
