Page 45 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
With the protective curl of his body around mine, listening to the storm rage outside, I’m left wondering how something so new could already feel like coming home.
Chapter 16
Morning arrives with blinding brightness,sunlight reflecting off fresh snow through the small window. I wake slowly, comfortably warm despite the shop's chill.
Too comfortable.
Awareness dawns as I register the weight of an arm draped across my waist, solid warmth pressed against my back. Somehow during the night, our careful arrangement dissolved, and we've ended up fitted together like nested spoons, Max's body curled protectively around mine.
His breathing remains deep and even against my neck, still asleep. I should move, establish proper distance, but my body betrays me, melting into the comfort of his embrace.
This is dangerous—far more dangerous than a heated kiss. This quiet intimacy, this sense of security in his arms, threatens the walls I've carefully constructed.
As if sensing my thoughts, Max stirs, his arm tightening briefly around me before awareness hits him too. His body tenses slightly.
"Sorry," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "I apparently migrate in my sleep."
"It's fine." I carefully extricate myself, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled hair. "At least we didn't freeze."
He laughs softly, stretching as he sits. Morning light catches in his hair, turning the dark strands nearly blue-black. He should look rumpled and ordinary after sleeping in his clothes, but somehow he manages to look unfairly attractive, with stubble shadowing his jaw and sleep-softened eyes.
"How bad is it out there?" He nods toward the window.
I stand on tiptoe to peer outside. "Clear skies. Lots of snow, but the plows are already working on Main Street."
"Back to reality, then."
"Apparently so." The awkwardness between us feels both teenage and profound.
My phone buzzes—a text from Sheriff Donovan confirming the roads to The Haven are now passable. I relay this to Max, relief and disappointment warring within me.
We moved through the morning routine, restoring the office to its original state and checking the shop for any storm damage. The generator performed perfectly, and Mountain Brew weathered the blizzard unscathed.
"I should get back." Max lingers by the front door. "Change clothes, check in with the office."
"Of course."
"Thank you for the hospitality." His tone is too formal, creating artificial distance from the intimacy we shared.
"Anytime. Well, not anytime. Preferably not during another blizzard."
His smile returns, genuine and warm. "I'll see you later?"
The question carries more weight than its simple words suggest.
"The shop's closed today for storm recovery. But tomorrow... your booth will be waiting."
Something shifts in his expression—pleasure mixed with an emotion I can't quite identify. "Tomorrow, then."
After he leaves, I lock the door behind him and lean against it, exhaling slowly. The shop feels emptier than usual, or perhaps I'm simply more aware of his absence after hours of his company.
I gather my belongings, eager for the comfort of my cottage, a hot shower, and clean clothes. The walk home takes twice as long as usual, navigating through snow piled shoulder-high along the plowed walkways.
My cottage welcomes me with familiar simplicity—colorful pillows on the secondhand sofa, mismatched coffee mugs hanging from hooks in the tiny kitchen, and the patchwork quilt Eleanor made me draped across my bed.
It should feel like a sanctuary.
Instead, it feels strangely hollow, as if something is missing that wasn't missing before.
