Page 49 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
A proper date. The words hang between us, transforming what happened on the couch from an isolated incident into something with potential—something real. Somehow, the idea of sitting across from him at a candlelit table, fully clothed and in public, seems more intimate than the heat of his body pressed against mine during the blizzard.
"I don't think—" I begin, but he reaches across the counter, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The casual touch sends sparks racing across my skin.
"Seven o'clock," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "I'll pick you up here."
A dozen reasons to refuse line up in my mind—most prominently Mabel's warning about tourist romances. But his eyes hold mine, steady and certain. I’m nodding before I can stop myself.
His smile could power the entire town through another blackout.
"This isn't a date," I clarify, needing the boundary for my own sanity.
He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a register that only I can hear. "Lily Brock, this is most definitely adate," he counters, my full name on his lips, sending an unexpected thrill through me. "With hand-holding, dinner conversation, and kissing." His eyes drop to my mouth for a brief, scorching moment. "And whatever else you're comfortable with."
The promise in his voice makes my skin flush hot, memories of his whispered intentions from last night flooding back. The café suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.
"Though perhaps wear that blue sweater you had on last Tuesday." His voice drops even lower, almost a caress. "It matches your eyes."
He noticed what I was wearing last Tuesday?
"I'll wear whatever's clean," I respond, fighting a smile despite the heat coiling in my stomach. "Now, don't you have work to do? That corner booth doesn't rent itself."
He returns to his station with poorly concealed satisfaction, and I turn away to hide my flustered pleasure, pressing my cool palms against my burning cheeks.
Definitely a date, his words echo in my mind.Definitely a date.
My body hums with anticipation at the thought of his hands on me again—this time without the restraint of "just sleeping."
Chapter 17
Timberline glowswith understated elegance as we enter. Soft lighting from iron chandeliers, white tablecloths, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the snow-covered mountains. Despite my protests, I'm wearing the blue sweater, paired with my only decent black pants and boots that haven't seen use since I left San Francisco.
"Mr. Lawson, Ms. Brock." The host greets us with elegance and hospitality. "Your table is ready."
We're led to a corner table beside the windows—the best in the house, with views of moonlight on fresh snow. A single candle flickers between place settings, creating the unmistakable atmosphere of a romantic dinner.
Not a date, I remind myself, even as Max holds my chair, but my body remembers his promises from the night of the blizzard, the controlled hunger in his touch, the darkness he admitted to craving.
"This is lovely." I unfold the heavy linen napkin, suddenly aware of how special this evening feels compared to my usual routine. "I haven't been here since they renovated last year."
"First time for me." Max surveys the space appreciatively. "Lucas Reid clearly has an eye for design."
"Chef Morgan's food is the real star. His farm-to-table approach transformed the local culinary scene."
Conversation flows easily as we order—a shared charcuterie board featuring local ingredients, followed by rosemary lamb for Max and cedar-plank salmon for me. The wine—a rich red from Silverleaf Vineyards—complements both perfectly.
Between courses, Max tells me about his childhood in Detroit—son of an auto factory worker and a nurse, scholarship student who coded his first program at thirteen on a computer rescued from a dumpster. His path to tech success wasn't privileged or connected; it was built through innate talent and relentless work.
"My father thought I was wasting my time." He swirls wine in his glass, expression distant. "He wanted me to get a 'real job' at the plant. Couldn't understand why I'd spend hours debugging code instead of working on cars."
"Did he ever come around?"
"Eventually. When I sold my first app and paid off their mortgage." A smile touches his lips. "Though he still introduces me as 'my son who does something with computers.'"
I laugh, warmed by the glimpse of his roots. "My parents were the opposite. Both professors who expected me to pursue academia. Opening a coffee shop was my rebellion."
"And the tech career in between?"
"A detour that proved them right, then wrong, then right again." I take a sip of wine. "Though after the BrewTech disaster, I'm sure they'd agree I made the right choice leaving tech behind."
