Page 27 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
“Have a seat,” he says, his voice mellow, his movements fluid. “I’ll run it over.”
“Oh,” Eleanor says, startled but smiling all the same. She waves one hand dismissively, but it does nothing to stop him as he steps closer to the counter. “You don’t have to, but that’s so sweet of you.” She tucks herself into her favorite corner table near the window, wincing only slightly as she eases into the chair across from Max.
Her gaze shifts to me, glinting in the morning light, to where I stand behind the counter, watching, assessing, calculating.
Meddling.
Max holds my gaze briefly as I prepare Eleanor’s dark roast behind the bar. The mug fills, steam rising in soft ribbons through the air.
When I slide it to the end of the counter, he’s already there waiting, his hands braced lightly on the edge. His fingers curl around the mug—careful, delicate—as though he’s holding something breakable. There’s a casual sort of ease about him now, but there’s also something intentional in the way he moves, like he enjoys anticipating the steps before they need to happen.
As he walks the mug to Eleanor’s table, he dodges a group of high schoolers who rush in and salivate over the pastry case.
“You’ll spoil me,” Eleanor says as the dark roast touches the table in front of her.
“Working on it,” Max replies, the line almost cocky but landing softly instead, some subtle warmth threaded through his words.
She clasps her hands, blowing lightly on the surface of the coffee. “Lily never spoils me like this.”
The interaction is short and simple. He doesn’t look at me when he slides past the counter again, but my body betrays me regardless—my chest tightening, stomach flipping against my will.
Eleanor's eyes twinkle with mischief as she turns her attention to me. "You should know that Ruth Fletcher is planning to corner you about the Rocky Mountain Coffee Championship."
My hands still on the coffee carafe. "What about it?"
"It's being held in Riverdale next month. First time it's been this close to Angel's Peak." She watches my reaction closely. "Ruth thinks your specialty lattes should be entered. Said your cinnamon latte is 'competition-worthy.’"
"I happen to agree." Max turns to me. "Your blends are special, Lily. The kind that deserve recognition beyond this town."
I busy myself wiping down the already spotless counter, mind racing. The Rocky Mountain Coffee Championship is a prestigious event in the specialty coffee world. Winners often receive national attention, distribution deals, opportunities to expand. The kind of exposure I've deliberately avoided since leaving BrewTech.
"I don't do competitions," I say finally.
"Maybe you should." Eleanor sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. "Hiding your light under a bushel serves no one, least of all yourself."
Before I can respond, a group of hikers enters, saving me from further discussion. The morning continues in a flurry of activity—the pre-storm rush as locals stock up on caffeine before hunkering down at home.
The last hiker shuffles away, backpack jingling. Max's empty cup slides across the bartop. He taps twice on its rim—our signal that has evolved without ever being discussed. When I approach, his eyes lift from the glass, meeting mine with that careful neutrality he's perfected.
"Surprise me," he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "Something you'd drink." The request hangs between us, more intimate than it should be—as if he's asking to taste something of me, not just liquor. His mouth twitches—just barely—the edge of his jaw tightening over some thought I want to reach out and pluck from his head.
Ice clinks. Tonic fizzes clear. I pull a tight double—crema banded gold—then float it over the bubbles. Orange oils spray under my thumb, perfuming the glass.
Max doesn’t rush the drink, letting the orange and coffee mingle across his tongue like it’s worth savoring. His fingersrest lightly on the side of the glass, tracing lazy circles over the condensation. He glances up then, catching my eye as I pass near his table.
“Damn,” he says, voice low but cutting through the soft hum of the café. His lids lower like he’s enjoying some private relief. “That’s good.” One corner of his mouth tugs up, the smallest smile curling there. “I’d say you’re spoiling me, but I don’t want it to stop.”
He says it like it’s a joke, but something flickers in his tone, quiet, almost unguarded. The words land square in my chest, making me grip the edge of my towel tighter than necessary.
I tilt my head at him instead, unfazed. “Careful, Lawson,” I say, sliding a small dish of candied orange peel toward the corner of his table. Its sticky sweetness glistens faintly in the muted sunlight. “You’ll start to expect special treatment.”
His fingers reach for the dish. He plucks a thin strip of orange, holding it between his thumb and forefinger like it’s evidence of some larger truth. “Expect?” His brow arches. “I’m already ruined by it.” He gestures with the glass in a small tilt toward me. “By you.” His voice loses its mock gravity, dropping quieter. “I mean, let’s be honest—how am I supposed to drink coffee anywhere else now?”
I laugh under my breath, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. “Pretty sure Starbucks’ll survive if I stop ruining you.”
If there’s a compliment lingering underneath, I don’t acknowledge it. I don’t trust myself to. Instead, I return behind the bar as the door jingles and two contractors step inside, sawdust and cold clinging to their heavy boots.
Their boisterous energy breaks the thread of wherever our conversation was going, and I busy myself by pulling a double shot for their macchiato order.
