Page 33 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
He glances toward the windows, seeming to register the storm’s intensity for the first time.
I turn toward the windows as another violent gust shakes the glass.
"These old windows weren't made for storms like this. I need to secure the shutters."
"Let me help." Max closes his laptop and rises to follow me.
The wooden shutters are original to the building—charming, yes, but nothing about them is designed for convenience. Eachhas to be manually closed from the outside, then secured from the inside with iron hooks. During a blizzard, even twenty minutes of work stretches into an endless, exhausting battle against the wind.
Max works beside me, matching my motions as if he’s been doing this for years. The quiet between us feels companionable, but there’s an edge to it, a tension unfurling in the spaces between glances, touches, and breaths. Every gust of wind that rattles the windows feels like it tightens something invisible between us.
"Last one," I murmur, stepping toward the final window. The iron hook dangles loose against the frame, swinging gently as I reach for it.
Max moves at the same time. His hand collides with mine, warm despite the cold radiating through the glass.
The light contact sends a thin, shimmering current straight through me. His fingers brush over the back of my hand, firm and sure, before resting there, as though if he let go, the hook might disappear entirely.
I should pull away. But I don’t.
And then neither does he.
For a moment, the sounds of the storm fade, the wind’s relentless howl disappearing under the steady pulse of my heartbeat hammering in my ears. I turn my head, and his face is closer than I expect—too close, far too close.
Every detail assaults me at once: the faint droplets of water still clinging to his dark lashes, the shadows cast by his sharp jawline, the slightly parted curve of his lips.
His eyes lock onto mine, the blue of them darker now, storm-shadowed and intent. I forget how to breathe as he studies me, his gaze tracing a path over my face, heavy and heated, impossible to turn away from.
"Careful, Lily…" The words come low and rough, barely audible over the storm, but somehow they sink into me like a physical touch.
My name on his lips should be innocuous, even casual, but this time it’s something else entirely—a weighted warning, a restrained hunger that tightens around me like a net.
"What?"
His next words are softer, deliberate, but molten with promise. "If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to have to kiss you."
My throat goes dry. Every nerve in my body tightens in anticipation. I don’t remember deciding to look at him like anything. But now, I know exactly what he means.
Logic screams at me to step back, to break this before it breaks me. But somehow, I can’t. I couldn’t stop the way my body leans in, even if I wanted to—and I don’t want to, not even for a second.
Max moves first, unhurried and deliberate, like he’s testing that fragile line between hesitation and inevitability. His free hand lifts, warm fingers brushing along my jaw until they find my chin. His touch is gentle but firm, tipping my face until there’s no space left for pretense.
His thumb grazes the faint curve of my jaw as he tilts my head, a steadying motion that sends sparks scattering through my skin. The contact burns, but it’s the look in his eyes that leaves me molten—molten and rooted, unable to move or think or breathe.
The storm rages outside, snow slamming against the glass, the shutters vibrating faintly with every gust of wind. But I barely hear it. All I can hear is the rasp of his breath, low and warm, mingling with mine. All I can feel is the tension crackling between us, a current building so intensely it’s unbearable.
And then, finally, he lowers his head, his lips brushing mine softly at first—a tentative exploration, as if giving me one last chance to pull away.
I don’t.
My response is immediate and uncontrollable. I press closer, my hand lifting on instinct to press flat against his chest. His heartbeat beats against my palm, hard and fast, matching my own—or maybe it’s the other way around.
Max deepens the kiss, his mouth moving over mine with an intensity that steals whatever breath I have left. Heat floods through me, gathering low and urgent, as my fingers curl into the soft wool of his sweater for balance.
His hand slips from my chin, thumb lingering momentarily at the corner of my mouth. His fingertips drift downward, mapping the curve where my jaw meets my neck, hovering over my pulse—a ghost of contact that somehow burns hotter than a direct touch. His palm follows, skimming the column of my throat where each swallow becomes embarrassingly visible to him.
His touch skates across my collarbone, tracing its ridge like a cartographer memorizing coastlines. His fingers fan out, spreading across the slope of my shoulder, then reunite to trail down the length of my arm—one continuous, unbroken line that leaves goosebumps rising in its wake. His hand circles my elbow, thumb stroking the sensitive inside bend before continuing its journey.
When his fingers reach my wrist, they pause to count my heartbeats, then slip to my side, palm flattening against my ribs where each breath pushes me further into his touch. His hand slides around to the small of my back, fingers splaying wide, claiming territory as they settle at my waist—low and possessive. He pulls me flush against him, and I go willingly, my body arching to meet him as though it's impossible to avoid.
