Page 5 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
Hannah grins as she pushes the door open. "Touché. See you later, Lily."
With that, she’s gone, leaving me alone in the shop with the faint sound of the bell above the door still echoing. I shake my head. Eleanor’s influence really is everywhere.
After she leaves, I clear her table, finding the generous tip she always leaves despite my protests. Tucked under the saucer is a note:"PS: He's really hot. I checked his photo online. Just saying."
I crumple the note with a laugh that feels more genuine than I expected. Leave it to Hannah to try brightening my day with inappropriate reconnaissance.
Three hours pass in the comforting rhythm of morning service. The town slowly wakes. Doctor Mc’Dreamy, Cole Blake, swaggers in, picking up caffeine infusions for him and his new wife, a trauma doctor from Denver. The usual rotation of locals, who form the backbone of my business, filter in and wander out just like clockwork.
Not enough of them, though. The ledger doesn't lie. Without the summer surge, Mountain Brew is barely staying afloat. Two years of careful rebuilding could vanish in one bad season.
The morning rush—such as it is—tapers off by ten, leaving me time to prepare for my afternoon specialty showcase. My signature cinnamon lattes, made with house-made syrup, have developed into something of a cult following. Not enough to save the business, but enough to give me hope.
Before starting the afternoon preparations, I pull out the letter that arrived yesterday, smoothing the creases where I crushed it in my initial anger. The landlord's message is clear: rent increasing by thirty percent, effective next month.
Take it or leave it.
I reach for my ledger, flipping through the carefully maintained pages. The numbers haven't changed since yesterday. Or the day before. The conclusion remains the same. I can't afford this increase, given the current revenue the shop generates.
Shoving the letter back under the counter, I focus on what I can control.
Creativity. Quality. Experience.
The things that set Mountain Brew apart.
I arrange the specialty drinks on a silver tray—four perfect mini lattes in glass cups, each with different latte art andflavor variations. The display case has become a small tradition, drawing in curious customers and often leading to multiple sales—a tiny bit of theater in my otherwise practical shop.
The bell chimes just as I lift the tray. Probably Darlene from The PickAxe, who often stops by before her shift.
My head is down, concentrating on keeping the tray balanced. The first warning is the scent—expensive cologne with notes of bergamot and something woodsy. Not a local.
Then it happens.
A solid wall of human collides with me. The tray tilts… and physics takes over.
Chapter 2
Hot liquid splashesacross my hands, soaks my apron, and splatters onto the floor. My stomach lurches as the glass in my hand shatters, swearing loudly as coffee arcs magnificently across the room—and worst of all, directly onto a sleek silver laptop perched in the arms of some stranger.
"What the—!" A deep, angry voice growls over the chaos.
My head snaps up, already braced for impact, and suddenly my world narrows to the most startling blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Ocean blue. Glittering blue. The kind of blue so shocking and vivid it makes you forget things—sensible things—like what you’re doing or why your stomach is flipping inconveniently like a hooked fish.
Their owner doesn’t look any more thrilled than I am. Coffee drips from his liquid-slicked laptop, a device I can tell at a glance costs more than my monthly mortgage, the screen already fizzled into black. His jaw clenches as he stares at the damage, a sharp muscle ticking in the corner, and when his gaze finally snaps to me, it’s incredulous. Furious. Like I just obliterated his life's work—and honestly, maybe I did.
He’s tall, well over six feet, with dark hair that’s artfully mussed in the kind of way you’d see in men’s luxury magazines—half tousled, half deliberate. His black wool trench coat shifts sharply over broad shoulders; his designer jeans and polished leather boots scream a man who doesn’t belong in my small-town coffee shop. Which he doesn’t. Yet here he is, standing so close I can feel the crisp winter chill clinging to him.
The universe really does hate me.
"Watch where you’re going," he snaps, blue flames flashing in his eyes like some kind of storm god.
"Me?" The word is sharp, defensive—a flimsy shield against the strange, unwanted heat curling through me. "You walked straight into me." I gesture to the floor where the shattered mug and puddles of sticky liquid have turned into the scene of a coffee homicide. My hands are shaking slightly now, but I keep going. "I was carrying a full tray. Which was clearly visible—and is now clearly destroyed."
He arches a cynical eyebrow. "I was on a call." He holds up his phone in his free hand, the screen still lit. The other cradles the laptop like a wounded soldier.
"In a coffee shop doorway." My blood simmers as I cross my arms. "Which is, you know, forwalking through, not loitering in."
His jaw tightens. "Who’s the owner here?"
