Page 66 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
The thought of facing the town—of seeing realization dawn in Ruth's shrewd eyes, of watching Eleanor's warm smile fade to uncertainty, of enduring Darlene's inevitable questions—makes my chest tight with anxiety.
Yet beneath that fear, something else stirs. A whisper of the woman I used to be before Eric's betrayal—the one who fought for recognition, who stood behind her work with pride, who didn't shrink from challenges. The woman Max seems to see and believe in.
I wrap myself in a blanket that still smells faintly of his cologne, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions. Fear of exposure, of judgment, of being hurt again. But beneath those familiar anxieties, something new has taken root during these four days with Max—something that feels dangerously like hope.
The cottage feels too quiet without his presence, without his laughter rumbling through the rooms, his hands creating breakfast, his voice murmuring praise against my skin in the darkness.
Four days shouldn't be enough to create such dependency, such longing. Yet here I am, already missing him while simultaneously needing this solitude to find my footing.
Tomorrow, I'll have to decide whether to run again or finally stand my ground. Tonight, I'll let myself feel the ache of his absence, the fear of what's to come, and the faint, persistent hope that maybe—just maybe—Max is right about my strength and about the people of Angel's Peak.
Chapter 23
Sleep eludes me,my bed too empty, too cold without Max's presence. The argument replays on an endless loop, his words cutting deeper with each mental repetition. By morning, exhaustion settles into my bones, making even routine tasks feel monumental.
Mountain Brew opens on schedule despite my leaden limbs and hollow chest. The morning rush—blessedly busy with the weekend crowd—provides a distraction from the ache of Max's absence. With each chime of the bell, my heart performs a traitorous leap of hope, only to crash when the entering customer isn't him.
It's my fault. I asked for space when I should've let him hold me, but my battles aren't his to fight.
The bell chimes again, and Ruth Fletcher strides in, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in its practical ponytail, expression uncharacteristically somber.
"Morning, Lily," she says, approaching the counter with deliberate casualness.
"Ruth." I manage a smile that feels brittle. "The usual?"
"Please." She settles onto a stool, watching me work. "Quiet morning?"
"Busy, actually." I focus on the familiar routine of preparing her double espresso. "Just a lull now."
Ruth accepts her drink, then sets it down without tasting it. "So. I saw the article."
My hands freeze on the espresso machine. Here it comes—the questions, the doubt, the subtle withdrawal that inevitably follows when people learn about my past.
"Terrible invasion of privacy," Ruth continues, her voice hardening. "Taking photos through your window? Disgusting. I've already called the editor and gave them a piece of my mind about journalistic ethics."
I blink, thrown by her response. "You... called the editor?"
"Of course I did. What kind of friend would I be if I let that stand?" Ruth takes a sip of her espresso, eyes never leaving mine. "And for what it's worth, whatever happened at that tech company—BrewTech, was it?—doesn't change a damn thing about who you are in Angel's Peak."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "You don't think I'm a corporate spy?"
Ruth snorts, the sound so undignified it startles a laugh from me. "Please. I've known you for two years, Lily. You're the woman who stays late to help Margie repair her ancient refrigerator. Who delivers coffee to Eleanor when her arthritis is acting up. Who teaches those kids from the high school about running a business." She leans forward, expression fierce. "I don't need to know what happened in San Francisco. I know who you are here."
The unexpected acceptance leaves me momentarily speechless. "I... thank you."
"Nothing to thank me for." Ruth waves away my gratitude. "Though I will say, you could have told us. We're your community, Lily. That means something in Angel's Peak."
Before I can respond, the bell chimes again. Several customers enter at once—a family of tourists, Hannah from the library, and Sheriff Donovan.
Hannah catches my eye immediately, offering a warm smile as she approaches the counter. "Morning, Lily. Could I get a triple shot mocha?"
I prepare her drink, tension coiling in my stomach as I wait for her to mention the article. Instead, she chatters about the new books arriving at the library, asks about a coffee delivery for their upcoming book club, and departs with a friendly wave.
The pattern repeats throughout the morning. Customers come and go—some locals, some visitors—and while I catch occasional curious glances, no one mentions BrewTech or corporate espionage. Several regulars seem to make a point of being warmer than usual, leaving larger tips or lingering to chat about inconsequential town matters.
By mid-afternoon, the quiet acceptance has me more unsettled than outright confrontation would have. The bell chimes again, and Eleanor Morgan enters, silver braids crowned atop her head, keen eyes missing nothing as she surveys the shop.
"Your young man isn't here today." She settles onto a stool at the counter, observing rather than questioning.
