Page 26 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
My shoulders are stiff, my skin thrumming with heat that refuses to cool, but I keep moving. Keep busy.
To his credit, Max doesn’t press. He doesn’t call attention to my awkward, flustered retreat or the crimson I’m sure is painting my neck. He doesn’t try to pull me back into that magnetic tension that left my mind empty and my body leaning into instincts I’m not ready for.
Instead, he drifts back to his booth like we didn’t just stand at the edge of something vast and unspoken.
As for me, I’m not calm, cool, and collected like him. I’m not fineat all. Not really. My heart refuses to settle—the erratic rhythm battering against every wall I’ve built since moving here.
And just like that, another day passes.
Chapter 10
The next morning,the bell above the door chimes at exactly 7:02.
Max’s arrival slices into the quiet hum of the shop. Outside, the pale morning light has begun to stretch itself across the street, but inside, the air shifts the moment he steps through the door.
There's a brief gust of mountain chill that follows him in, clinging to his cashmere sweater—dark slate today, like the morning sky threatening rain. He pauses near the door, a single nod for me across the room, his mouth curving—barely—at the edges when his gaze flicks to the corner booth.
It’s already waiting for him.
The glass water bottle sweats with condensation beside a slim thrift-store vase holding two sprigs of purple lupine and a daisy, fresh from the side garden. In front of the vase, propped against the salt cellar, sits a small hand-lettered card:
Today: Single-origin Yirgacheffe — pour-over.
Flavors: Blueberry, cocoa, and jasmine as it cools.
Max studies the card for a moment, the smallest crease forming between his brows before his hand drops to brush the corner of it with one finger—gentle, deliberate. His laptop and notebook fall into their usual lineup on the table, his pen sliding parallel to the edge. His phone is face down near the water, as always.
When he settles into the booth, his shoulders lose the tension he carries through the door, like he’s shrugging off weight that doesn’t belong in here. The quiet of the shop seems to wrap around him the way it does me before opening hours.
His finger trails across the edge of the card again, his touch reverent. He doesn’t pick it up, doesn’t distract with chatter, nods slightly, the curve of his mouth deepening.
The grinder hums as I measure the beans, the aroma of blueberry and soft cocoa pressing into the warm air. The coffee blooms beneath the first pour, soft spirals of water teasing jasmine into the steam. Each pass of the kettle is steady, deliberate.
My body has memorized this movement. My hands move mechanically, but my focus remains fractured, trailing back to him—to the careful way he cradles his water bottle and scans the rising steam from the coffee, to how this all feels automatic now, like he belongs here as a fixture of the shop.
I walk over his first cup of the day, steam blooming from the rich roast.
“Pour-over to start,” I murmur, stopping beside the table. “You’ll get the blueberry if you let it sit.”
“Thank you.”
When I set the ceramic mug beside him, he doesn’t reach for it right away. His hands settle around the cup like he’s absorbing its warmth through his skin, holding onto the moment before the sip.
His lashes brush once against his cheek as his eyes shut for a heartbeat, and when he raises the cup to his lips, his shoulders drop another fraction. The simple act of drinking coffee looks like something sacred when he does it.
It’s unnerving. And captivating.
The bell jingles again, pulling my gaze from him. Eleanor shuffles inside, her thick scarf tucked into her coat, fingers tight around her coin purse. Her movements are slower than usual, and her left knee appears to be stiff.
“Morning, Eleanor.” I offer her a warm smile. “Doing okay?"
"Ah, yes. It’s just the weather. A storm’s blowing in. At least, that’s what my knee’s telling me. It’s more reliable than the weatherman, you know."
"I know." I laugh at her weather knee, and she’s not wrong. It’s more reliable than the weatherman. "Dark roast today?”
“Yes, please. You know what I like.”
Max looks up from his table. His mouth curves into that faint smile of his, the one I’m starting to see as a replacement for words he’d rather not say. The tension that always lingers in his frame has slipped away entirely, and he stands, his hands loose at his sides, easy as ever.
