Page 39 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"That's the deadline. Back to reality after that."
Back to reality. As if this—this town, this shop, this moment—is some fantasy interlude in his real life.
"What's the project?" I ask, redirecting my thoughts.
"An enhanced security protocol for small businesses." His expression animates with genuine passion. "The current system protects data, but the update will create secure pathways between physical point-of-sale systems and cloud storage that even sophisticated hackers can't breach."
Despite my determination to maintain emotional distance from anything tech-related, his enthusiasm is contagious.
"Like for coffee shops?" I find myself asking. "Sounds expensive," I whisper, unable to keep the longing from my tone.
"As I told Hunter Morgan, small businesses are the most vulnerable to data theft because they’re the ones who can least afford enterprise-level security." He leans forward, eyes bright. "Imagine knowing your customers' payment information is as secure as any major corporation's, without needing an IT department or expensive infrastructure."
The air tightens again—now layered with want, yearning, the brushfire spark between us that neither of us quite dares stoke, not yet.
Our knees jostle, legs tangling in the tight shuffle for space. He doesn’t pull away, and I don’t either. The candle shadows stretch, flicker across his jaw, and his eyes linger on my lips. For one long moment, silence blooms: lush, full of all the things that first kiss woke inside us.
"That's... actually useful."
"Try not to sound so surprised." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Some of us tech bros occasionally create things that help real people."
I laugh, surprising myself. "Fair point."
Our conversation flows more easily as we finish our makeshift dinner. Max describes his journey from scholarship kid at Stanford to reluctant CEO. I share sanitized stories about my coffee training, my travels to source beans directly from farmers, and my dream of eventually creating my own roasting facility.
Carefully, we navigate around the dangerous edges—his current project's specifics, my reasons for leaving San Francisco. The candlelight creates a bubble where only selected truths are permitted.
"Your turn." He gathers our empty plates in slow, deliberate movements—never breaking eye contact, never breaking that shimmering tension. "How did Lily Brock become a coffee sorceress in a mountain town?"
His question lands as soft as velvet but as charged as lightning, and demands more honesty than I've offered so far. I stare into my water glass, debating, but there's really only one path forward. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain he must hear it too. I tuck my hair behind my ear, shivering at the memory of why I ran, and what I lost.
Under the blanket, our thighs almost touch. One subtle shift and we'd be tangled, skin to skin, beneath wool and candlelight's half-shadow. It's easier to focus on a safer subject, such as work, coffee, or an old injury—anything but the wicked curiosity whispering through me.
Max stretches his arms along the back of the couch, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the hard edge of his stomach. The movement is casual, but nothing about it feels innocent—not when I've just learned what lies beneath his composed exterior.
I can't help but trace the exposed strip of skin with my eyes, remembering his whispered promises against my ear. That he wanted to back me against the counter, lift me onto it...
My throat goes dry at the memory of what followed, how he'd wanted to taste every inch of me.
Even in his gentle posture, there's coiled intent, leashed strength. The same control he spoke of earlier—the power he found essential "in all things worth having."
Is that what I am to him? Something worth having? Something worth controlling? The thought sends a contradictory shiver through me—half apprehension, half thrill.
How did I become a coffee sorceress in a mountain town?Good question. Something I’m not going to answer with anything approaching the truth.
"I needed a fresh start. Wanted something real." My voice is steadier than my nerves.
"That's not the whole story." His voice drops—soft, unmistakably commanding. The arm behind my shoulderstightens, corralling me just a little closer. His thigh angles into mine, a subtle but territorial press.
He waits, silence thick and thrumming.
When I don't answer right away, his hand slides behind my neck—not quite touching skin, but hovering just close enough that I feel his warmth ghosting along my hairline.
"Open up, Lily. I want the truth, not the PR version. Tell me what you've told no one else."
His eyes hold mine, steady and unyielding. There's no room for misdirection in the space carved out by that dark, expectant gaze. My breath hitches; the room feels smaller, Max suddenly so close I could taste the command in his words if I dared.
My throat tightens, not in fear, but from the exhilarating pressure of being seen, of being given space to let down my guard. The part of me that craves honesty—the same part that craves surrender—sits up and listens.
