Page 68 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"Peace offering." His smile is hesitant, uncertainty shadowing his usually confident expression. "The florist said it's nearly impossible to kill, which seemed appropriate for someone who spends their life nurturing things."
Words desert me entirely, relief and lingering hurt creating a bottleneck in my throat.
"I was wrong to push so hard." He approaches the counter slowly, setting the cactus down as carefully as if it were made of glass. "Your boundaries exist for reasons I didn't fully understand, and I had no right to challenge them."
"You were right, though." The admission comes easier than expected. "About some of it, at least."
Surprise flickers across his face. "Can we talk? Properly?"
I glance around the empty shop, then flip the sign to CLOSED.
"Let's go home."
The walk to my cottage passes in silence, not an uncomfortable silence, but a weighted one. Inside, the space feels different somehow—as if our argument reshaped its contours, leaving nothing quite as it was before.
Max waits for me to take the lead, remaining near the door until I gesture toward the sofa. We sit facing each other, closeenough to reach out but maintaining a small distance that feels symbolic of the gap between us.
"I need to tell you everything." The decision crystallizes as I speak. "The full story, not just the sanitized version."
He nods, giving me space to continue at my own pace.
"I should start by saying... I was wrong to panic about the article." I meet his eyes directly. "Everyone in town has been incredibly supportive. Ruth, Eleanor, even Darlene—they all made a point of letting me know they don't care about what happened in San Francisco. That they know who I am now, and that's what matters to them."
"I'm not surprised." Max's smile is gentle. "That's what community means in a place like this."
"I never gave them the chance to prove it until now." The realization sits heavy with regret. "I've spent two years afraid of something that never would have happened."
"Fear is rarely rational." His hand reaches for mine, a tentative bridge across the space between us. "Especially when it's rooted in trauma."
I squeeze his fingers, drawing strength from the connection. "I'm ready to tell you everything now. The full story, not just the highlights."
He nods, giving me space to continue at my own pace.
"Eric and I met at a tech conference. I was presenting early research on algorithmic predictions for coffee extraction variables." The memory rises with surprising clarity. "He approached afterward, full of questions about commercial applications. Within weeks, he offered me a position at BrewTech, which was then just a small startup with promising funding."
Max listens without interruption as I detail the next two years—the algorithms I developed, the growing recognitionwithin specialty coffee circles, the romance with Eric that evolved alongside our professional partnership.
The words flow more freely than I would have believed possible, unwinding the tangled narrative of my time at BrewTech, the betrayal, the accusations, and the aftermath that drove me to Angel's Peak.
"The coffee analytics platform was my creation, but Eric was the face of the company. He had the connections, the charm, the business acumen." I trace a pattern on the sofa cushion, focusing on the familiar texture. "When we secured Series B funding, the pressure intensified. Investors wanted results, scalability, market differentiation."
"That's when things changed?" Max prompts gently when I pause.
"That's when I discovered he'd been meeting privately with investors, taking sole credit for the technological innovations I developed." The old anger flares briefly. "When confronted, he apologized profusely, claimed it was a misunderstanding, that he'd correct the record."
My hands tighten around a throw pillow. "A week later, I found altered code in the repository—my algorithms, subtly modified and tagged with his credentials. When I checked the logs, they showed retrospective changes dating back months, creating a false history of his contributions."
Max's expression darkens. "Digital gaslighting."
"Precisely." The technical term for what happened feels validating in some way. "I gathered evidence—original notes, earlier versions stored on my personal drives, email exchanges discussing the development process. I planned to confront him privately first, then take everything to the board if necessary."
The most painful part of the story approaches, and I steel myself to share it. "The night before my planned confrontation,we had dinner at our usual place. Eric was unusually attentive, full of compliments about my work and our partnership."
"He knew." Max's intuition jumps ahead.
"He knew." I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. "While we were at dinner, someone accessed my apartment. My backup drives and paper notebooks containing my original work disappeared. By morning, the company's Slack channels, email server, and code repository had all been scrubbed of evidence showing my contributions."
"Then came the company-wide email." My voice hardens with remembered humiliation. "Eric claimed to have discovered 'disturbing evidence' that I had attempted to steal proprietary algorithms and sell them to competitors. Security escorted me from the building while colleagues I worked alongside for years watched in silence."
