Page 65 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"Don't I?" His voice rises slightly. "After I sold my first app, I felt invincible, that there was nothing I couldn’t do, but my first company failed spectacularly. My initial investors lost everything. I know exactly what public failure feels like."
"That's not the same as betrayal."
"No, it's not, and I’m not sharing this to compare or suggest that what happened to me is the same as what happened to you. I understand the nuance, but rebuilding from ashes is still rebuilding, whatever caused the fire." He steps closer, intensity radiating from him. "You can't spend your life afraid of what might happen if your past catches up to you. That's not living. That's just existing."
The words strike too close to truths I've carefully avoided confronting. "You've known me for a few weeks. You don't get to judge the choices that kept me sane, that let me rebuild something from nothing."
"I'm not judging your choices. I'm questioning whether they're still serving you." His tone softens slightly. "The womanI've come to know is too extraordinary to spend her life hiding from what happened."
"The woman you've come to know exists because of those choices." My voice breaks slightly on the words. "If I hadn't left, if I hadn't started over, I wouldn't be who I am now."
"And maybe that's exactly why you were meant to go through it." He reaches for me again, but I step back. "But at some point, healing means moving forward, defending yourself, not running away."
"You don't get to decide what healing looks like for me." The words emerge cold and final. "You don't get to waltz into my life and restructure my existence because it doesn't align with your vision of what I should be."
Hurt flashes in his eyes, quickly replaced by frustration. "That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it?" The fear transmutes to anger, protecting the vulnerable places his words have exposed. "You've been here for weeks. You’re leaving soon. You get to go back to your life, and it goes on unchanged, while I'm left dealing with whatever the fallout might be."
Silence stretches between us, the space filled with words we can't take back and truths neither of us is ready to face fully.
"You talk as if I’m going to abandon you."
"Aren’t you?" I take a step back, needing distance. "This is different for you. There’s no way you can understand."
"I’ve upset you." Max’s movements are stiff with suppressed emotion. "Eric stole more than your code—he stole your belief in your own resilience. I won’t let him get away from it. What do you need from me?"
The accuracy of his assessment stings. Four days of intensity, of discovering parts of myself I'd buried long ago, and now this—reality crashing back in with brutal efficiency.
"I need time to process this." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the cottage. "I need to think about what this means, what I'm going to do. I needspace."
Instead of arguing, he nods. "I understand."
"It's not that I don't want—" I begin, unsure how to explain the storm of emotions churning inside me.
"Lily." He cuts me off gently. "You don't have to explain. This is a lot to take in, and you need time to process it. I get it."
"Thank you." Relief washes through me at his understanding.
He reaches for my face, cupping my cheek gently. "For what it's worth, you're stronger than you give yourself credit for, and the people here care about you more than you realize."
"Maybe." I don't sound convinced, even to my own ears. "We’ll see what they think of me in the morning."
"I'll be at the lodge when you're ready to talk." He pauses at the door. "And Lily? I'm going to fight this. My legal team won't let them get away with this invasion of privacy or the implications about you."
The protectiveness in his voice both warms and terrifies me. Max Lawson has become entwined in my life in ways I never anticipated, and now our connection threatens the very anonymity I've fought to maintain.
"I know." I manage a weak smile. "That's who you are."
Part of me wants to stop him, to bridge the sudden chasm between us. Instead, I watch in silence as he gathers his things.
At the door, he pauses. "Whatever you decide to do, running doesn't solve the problem. It postpones facing it. You deserve better than a life spent looking over your shoulder, afraid of lies some asshole spread to make him look like the victim."
The door closes behind him with a quiet click, infinitely more devastating than a slam would have been.
Alone in my cottage, I sink onto the sofa, the absence of Max's presence a tangible ache. The article on his phone screenreplays in my mind, words and images that will inevitably shatter the carefully constructed sanctuary I've built in Angel's Peak.
For two years, I've lived in the shadows, avoiding attention, keeping my history buried. Now it's all unraveling, thanks to a few photos and a journalist eager for clicks.
