Page 6 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
My lips part to shoot back another retort, but it dies when I see his eyes flicker to the name embroidered on my apron. Damn this small-town branding.
"I am," I admit, tipping my chin up. "Lily Brock. Mountain Brew's owner, barista, accountant, and apparently, janitor. Nice to meet you." Without another word, I grab a towel from behind the counter and toss it to him.
He catches it with a flick of his wrist, his long fingers securing the towel with ridiculous precision—then fumbles with it for a half-second, like the entire act of mopping up coffee is beneath him. But my traitorous stomach chooses that moment to loopand twist in a way it absolutely shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be noticing his hands. Or his coat. Or the way he’s looking at me like he can’t decide if I’m a disaster or a puzzle.
"Your laptop might be salvageable if you power it down and dry it immediately," I tell him, my tone clipped—anything to distract myself from how his voice made my toes curl when he barked at me.
He hesitates for a beat, then carefully sets the laptop on a nearby table, about as gently as you’d set a baby bird. His brow furrows as he dabs at the soaked edges with the towel.
"Do you have rice?" he asks, his voice calmer now—smoother. Too smooth. It's the kind of voice that could make you forget what you’re mad about if you're not careful. Luckily, I’m still mad.
"In the kitchen," I say curtly. "Give me a minute."
I spin on my heel and head to the back room, grateful for the momentary reprieve—from the disaster, yes, but also from him. Alone, I take a breath, trying to ignore the way my pulse is still racing, fast and shallow. This isn’t normal. I should be annoyed—livid, even—but the only thing I can think about is how ridiculously attractive he is and how infuriating that is. My stomach flutters, and I grip the edge of the counter, glaring down at the container of rice like it’s my worst enemy.
Pull it together, Lily. He's just another entitled tech jerk with a God complex.
When I return, container in hand, he’s removed the laptop battery and set its components neatly across the table, methodically patting them dry. His fingers are sure and steady, working with practiced precision. Deft. Calculating.
Every movement breathes competence, and that only makes him more insufferable. This should not be attractive.
"Here," I say briskly, plunking the rice down beside him. "Submerge it completely. Battery separated. Leave it for at least 24 hours."
He looks up at me, surprise flickering through those vivid blue eyes. "You know your tech emergency protocols."
"I know coffee damage control," I lie easily—because what other explanation could I give for knowing what to do? There’s no way I’m telling him about my past.
He huffs out a low sound that’s almost a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. "This laptop contains six months of work." His voice is tight with restrained frustration, tense and measured like a man trying very hard not to lose it.
"Hopefully, you have backup protocols," I say, crossing my arms again. It’s petty, sure, but no one walks into my coffee shop and speaks to me like that.
His gaze flickers to mine, irritation sparking for just a beat before, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitches with the hint of something else—humor, maybe? Or resignation? For the first time, his blue eyes soften, just slightly, and it catches me completely off guard.
"Fair point," he finally says.
And against my better judgment, my insides do another damn backward flip.
He arranges the laptop parts in the rice while I mop up the mess, acutely aware of the space between us, of every subtle movement he makes and the irritating way he seems entirely too composed for someone who just watched his entire digital life nearly go up in smoke—or rather, coffee.
The clean, masculine scent of his cologne teases my senses, layered with cinnamon and the burnt coffee disaster I’ll be smelling for hours. It’s both distracting and annoying that I even notice.
I salvage what I can of the destroyed display. Four specialty drinks wasted, shattered glass everywhere, and sticky puddles across the counter and floor. Not to mention my nerves, which are trying to process the lingering weight of those ridiculously blue eyes whenever they flicker in my direction.
"I'm sorry about your...display," he says eventually, gesturing toward it with restrained civility. His tone is measured, almost detached, and it makes his apology feel too polished to actually land. “I’ll pay for the damages.”
“It’s fine,” I reply shortly. It’snotfine—the drinks were expensive to make, the mess will take forever to clean up, and my business runs on razor-thin margins. But I don’t want his money, don’t wantanythingfrom him.
“I insist.” A glint of leather catches my attention as he pulls out a wallet. Of course it’s leather. He extracts several bills without even glancing at them, laying them on the counter with an efficiency that screamsroutine.
When I glance at the stack—five crisp hundred-dollar bills—I blink, stunned by both the absurdity and audacity of it. “Seriously? You’re giving me five hundred dollars for four drinks?”
“To cover the drinks, the inconvenience...” He gestures vaguely to the mess I’m scrubbing up. “And your time.”
“Why not just pull out your black Amex and call it even?” I mutter as I toss a drenched napkin into the trash.
He smirks faintly, entirely too amused. “It’s in my other wallet.”
I scowl at him while he seals the rice container, carefully cradling it under one arm. Every move he makes is so precise, so confident that it’d be hard to imagine him rattled—if he weren’t infuriating me so thoroughly.
