Page 46 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
In the shower, hot water beats against tense muscles, but does nothing to wash away the memory of Max's arms around me. The phantom warmth of his body lingers like a ghost against my skin.
Three weeks. That's all he has in Angel's Peak. I can handle three weeks of attraction without losing my heart—can't I?
The phantom warmth of his body still pressed against mine, however, suggests otherwise.
I spend the remainder of the day in a haze, going through the motions of normalcy. Laundry. A half-hearted attempt at reading. Preparing recipes for tomorrow's pastry case. But underneath it all runs a current of anticipation, a countdown to seeing him again.
Morning comes both too quickly and not soon enough. I arrive before dawn, the familiar ritual of opening—grinding beans, wiping counters, warming ovens—a comforting anchor inmy sea of uncertainty. By the time the first customers arrive, the café smells of cinnamon and coffee, and I've almost convinced myself I can face Max with professional detachment.
Outside, the world is transformed—tree branches heavy with snow, the street a pristine white canvas broken only by a few early footprints.
"You're brewing the dark roast too hot again." Mabel's voice breaks through my distracted haze as she slides onto her usual stool at the counter. "Two degrees cooler would bring out the caramel notes."
"Good morning, Mabel." I adjust the temperature setting on the machine, knowing she's right. At seventy-eight, she doesn't miss a thing, especially when it comes to coffee. Her guesthouse has hosted visitors to Angel’s Peak for nearly forty years, and her palate remains unmatched.
"Your mind's elsewhere this morning." Mabel's shrewd eyes narrow as I prepare her usual medium roast, a splash of cream, served in the yellow mug with painted daisies. "Heard you had company during the storm."
News travels at supersonic speed in Angel's Peak. "Max Lawson was here when the roads closed. We had to make do."
"Make do." Mabel's silvery eyebrows rise with enough skepticism to fill the Grand Canyon. "That's what the kids call it these days?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Nothing happened."
"Your face says otherwise."
I busy myself with wiping down the already-clean counter. "We talked. Slept on opposite ends of the couch. That's it." It’s the tiniest of tiny white lies, but I don’t need all of Angel’s Peak knowing every detail.
"Mmhmm." Mabel sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. "And now?"
"And now nothing. He's a customer."
"A customer who looks at you like you're the secret ingredient in his favorite dish." Mabel sets her mug down with a decisive click. "I've seen that boy every morning at The Haven's breakfast, checking his watch every thirty seconds until it's time to come here."
My traitor heart stutters. "He's just eager to work. The coffee shop is quieter than the resort."
"Lily Brock, you can lie to yourself all you want, but don't waste your breath trying to fool me." Mabel's voice softens. "Just be careful, sweet pea. Tourist romances burn hot and fast. Unfortunately, they often leave nothing but ashes when they end."
"It's not a romance."
"If you say so." Mabel pats my hand, her palm warm and paper-dry against mine. "Just remember—three types come to Angel's Peak: those passing through, those hiding out, and those who've found home. Make sure you know which one he is before you give away pieces of yourself that you can't get back."
Her words stay with me long after she leaves, echoing as I move through the morning routine. Max hasn't arrived yet, his corner booth conspicuously empty. The absence shouldn't matter—shouldn't create this hollow feeling in my chest—yet I find myself glancing at the door each time the bell chimes.
By eleven, I've convinced myself he's not coming. Perhaps the night in the coffee shop clarified things for him—showed him the attraction was merely proximity and circumstance, nothing worth pursuing. Or worse, maybe our conversation about BrewTech gave him second thoughts.
Corporate spy.
The label might have finally registered, overriding whatever chemistry flared between us.
I wipe down the already spotless counter, reorganize the pastry case that doesn't need reorganizing, and check my phonethree times to confirm it's working. The memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, refuses to fade. I can still feel the gentle scrape of his stubble against my neck, still hear the low rumble of his laughter at his own terrible puns.
Pathetic. One kiss—well, several kisses—and I'm acting like a lovesick teenager.
Mabel catches me staring at the door for the fifth time in as many minutes. "Waiting for someone?" Her knowing smile makes me flush.
"Just watching the snow." The lie falls flat even to my own ears.
"Mmhmm." She turns back to her drink, but not before I catch her smirk. "The snow that's been falling continuously for three days. Must be fascinating."
