Page 54 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
The possibilities unfold before me—Mountain Brew evolving beyond just a coffee shop into a community hub, a place where local entrepreneurs and remote workers could thrive.
"You'd be offering something this town doesn't have," Max continues, "while still keeping everything that makes your café special. The perfect blend of your coffee expertise and practical business needs."
Every time he pauses to ask my opinion, he shifts slightly closer, his shoulder pressing against mine, his hand occasionally covering mine to guide my movements on the trackpad. Each touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, sending ripples of awareness through my body.
"Your story is what sets you apart. The artisan attention to detail, the unique blends, the mountain location—these are marketable differentiators in the specialty coffee market."
His enthusiasm is contagious, slowly displacing my earlier despair. As the site takes shape, incorporating my existing logo and the copper-and-wood aesthetic of the physical shop, I feel something new unfurling—possibility.
"This could work," I murmur, watching as he integrates a secure payment system.
"Itwillwork." His confidence leaves no room for doubt. When he reaches across me to type something, his breath brushes my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.
He notices.
His eyes darken momentarily before returning to the screen. "Here, try the user experience yourself."
I navigate through the site he's created, marveling at its intuitive design and authentic representation of my business. When I complete a test purchase of my signature cinnamon bean blend, the confirmation page includes options for brewing recommendations and complementary flavor pairings.
"That personal touch will drive customer loyalty and word-of-mouth marketing." Max's smile is triumphant as he leans in to observe my reaction, his chest pressing against my back, one hand resting possessively on my hip. The casual ownership in the gesture makes my breath catch. "No mass-market coffee company offers that level of customization."
"This is..." I struggle to find adequate words, distracted by his proximity. "Max, this is incredible."
"It's just the beginning." He turns me to face him fully, hands gripping my waist with gentle authority. "With targeted social media and strategic partnerships with local businesses for cross-promotion, you could double your current revenue within six months."
The technical side of me—the part I've kept suppressed since BrewTech—springs fully to life, engaging with his ideas and offering refinements. We lose track of time, deep in creativecollaboration that feels both professionally stimulating and undeniably intimate. Each time our ideas align, his expression warms. It’s the kind of approval that makes me inexplicably eager to please him.
When we finally pause, the clock reads nearly midnight.
"We should celebrate." Max closes his laptop with an air of satisfaction. "The official digital launch of Mountain Brew's expansion."
"With what? Everything's closed at this hour."
He glances toward the liquor shelf where I keep spirits for specialty coffee drinks. "Irish coffee?"
Ten minutes later, we sit side by side on the small couch in my office, sipping warm Irish coffees and admiring our work on his tablet. The whiskey adds a pleasant warmth to my veins, though I suspect my lightheaded feeling has more to do with Max's proximity than the alcohol.
"Thank you for this." I turn to face him, our knees touching in the small space. "Not just the technical help, but... believing it could work. I gave up before I even tried."
"Why?" His question is gentle but direct. He sets his mug down, giving me his full attention. His hand finds my knee, thumb tracing small circles that somehow make it harder to concentrate.
I stare into my coffee, gathering courage. "After BrewTech, I lost faith in myself and my business instincts. Figured I was better off keeping things small and manageable. I reinvented myself as a coffee shop owner. No algorithms, no innovation, nothing that could be stolen or twisted against me." I attempt a smile that feels brittle.
Max is quiet for a moment, processing. Then, unexpectedly, he shares in return. "My father lost his job. The factory closed; operations were moved overseas. Within six months, we were a week away from losing our house."
The admission comes without self-pity, stated as a simple fact.
"We were going to move into my uncle's basement. One room for three people." He rotates his mug slowly between his palms. "I watched my father—proudest man I've ever known—break down when he thought no one could see him. That's when I promised myself I'd never be financially vulnerable. It's why I worked so hard on that first app. I knew what I could do, and I wasn't going to let my family down. That week passed. And then another. The mortgage company was beating down the door, and then…"
"And then, you sold the app."
"I sold the app." He grins. "Seven-figures. Paid off the mortgage, and the rest is history."
"Is that why you work so much?" I ask softly.
"Partly. Success became my security blanket." His smile turns self-deprecating. "Though there's a certain irony in working so obsessively that you never actually enjoy the security you've created. There were failures along the way, but I never stopped believing in myself. Eric stole that from you, your belief in yourself. I aim to show you that you can do anything you set your mind to."
"Thanks."
