Page 28 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
A few minutes later, while the contractors dig into their coffees and warm blueberry scones, I clear a stray cup froma nearby table to give myself an excuse to glance toward Max again.
The scene hasn’t changed much. His laptop glows faintly, a notepad sits slightly off-center next to it, and his sleek pen now lies down at an angle across the page, as though it had been dropped mid-thought. His left hand hovers over the espresso tonic, circling the glass absently while his mind works in quieter ways than those contractors ever could.
The corner booth matches him, now more his space than mine. The glass water bottle glints in the sunlight streaming through the window, the thrift-shop vase leaning slightly with its lupines and solitary daisy, and my card—our small, running catalog of drinks and recommendations—is propped upright where he leaves it.
He settles seamlessly into the heartbeat of the café, like he’s always belonged here, though it feels unnerving for all the ways he hasn’t. And yet, it’s impossible to untangle his rhythm from mine now—he’s a fixture. Expected. Predictable, but quietly disruptive in all the ways that matter.
I return to the machine, falling into my own rhythm, weaving between incoming orders and stolen glances toward his booth. Another hour ticks by, and even in the midst of the small mid-morning crowd, the soft taps of his keyboard somehow thread through the space, syncing with the scrape of mugs, the occasional burst of laughter, the low hum of conversations.
A quiet exchange we’ve never discussed but have come to understand the rules of—he doesn’t look at me when he places the empty glass at the edge of his table, leaving just enough room for something new.
I step toward the back bar where I’ve already set the ingredients for the next drink.
Am I spoiling him?
Possibly.
But spoiling him offers a strange kind of satisfaction I haven’t felt in years, and somehow I don’t want to stop.
By eleven, I switch the card at his table again.
Next: Maple-cinnamon cortado. Short. Intense.
I tamp a tight basket, watch the first amber strands strip into tiger-tailed crema. Milk, not quite as hot; cinnamon dusted fine, maple folded through the foam. I set the glass down and wait. He lifts it, inhales like he’s memorizing the scent. The sip is small, deliberate. Tongue pressing to his palate to catch the spice.
“Dangerous,” he murmurs, and the word skates under my skin.
The lunch lull settles. The afternoon passes, and I set the next card down at his table when he steps away to take a call. When he returns to the booth, he lifts my card.
If you make it to four p.m.: Dark-chocolate chili mocha. Heat under sweet.
He taps the edge with his pen, eyes lifting to meet mine across the room. No smile. Just recognition. A promise that he’ll be here at four.
I turn to the grinder, cinnamon and cocoa already waiting, and tell myself this is good business. The steam rising from the pitcher argues otherwise.
Chapter 11
A storm alertcuts through the lingering rhythm of the café's afternoon lull, sharp and undeniable.
"Angel's Peak and surrounding communities should prepare for severe winter conditions,"the weather announcer's voice crackles through my phone speaker."The National Weather Service has issued a winter storm warning beginning this afternoon through tomorrow morning. Accumulations of two to three feet are expected at higher elevations, with wind gusts up to forty miles per hour creating white-out blizzard conditions. Travel will be impossible in many areas. Residents are advised to prepare for power outages and?—"
I silence it with a tap of my thumb, already glancing toward the windows. The glass fogs faintly at the edges, but I can still see the sky outside, dull and heavy with thickening clouds that cling to the peaks and spill downward like smoke.
Snow hasn’t started falling heavily yet, just the occasional flurry dusting the street like sugar, but the familiar pressure sits low in the air, warning me it won’t hold for long. Storms in Angel’s Peak might start slow, but when they arrive, they have teeth—sharp, dangerous, and unpredictable, catching even locals off guard.
The bell jingles, and I blow out a breath, glancing reflexively toward the door.
“Afternoon, Lily.”
Not Max.
Mayor Reynolds enters, stamping the dusting of snow from his boots onto the mat by the door. His coat is unzipped—an optimistic sign that won’t last long—and he rubs his hands together briskly as he makes his way to the counter.
“Afternoon, Mayor.”
“Quite the system moving in.” He jerks his chin toward the windows as I move to pour his usual Americano.
“I just heard the alert,” I reply, sliding the warm cup across the counter.
