Page 7 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
“You know your laptop might still have a chance,” I say pointedly as he adjusts the strap of his bespoke messenger bag.“If you leave it powered off and let the rice work its magic for twenty-four hours.”
He arches an eyebrow, curious. “You mean leave it… here?”
I blink at him. “Yeah, in the container. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
A light flickers in his gaze, amusement mingled with something sharper. “I appreciate the offer, but no thanks. Nothing personal, Lily—” His smile turns almost apologetic as he focuses those blue eyes on my apron again, like he’s locking my name into memory, “—but I don’t trustanyonewith this laptop. My work stays with me.”
“Of course it does,” I mutter under my breath, a bitter edge slipping through despite myself. His gaze sharpens, catching it, but I don’t bother pretending it was anything other than exactly what it sounded like.
“What was that?” His tone isn’t defensive, just curious in that maddening way of his, like he’s filing the moment away for later analysis.
I straighten, crossing my arms. “Nothing. Just thinking it must be exhausting.”
“Excuse me?” His brow furrows, but there’s an almost playful tilt to his mouth, like he’s daring me to elaborate.
I glance at him, my irritation and fascination battling it out in real time. “Being the smartest guy in the room all the time.”
For the first time, his composure falters—just a little. He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Who says I am?”
“Oh, please.” I gesture toward him broadly: the suit, the laptop, the smooth confidence. “You walk in here like you’ve got the most important brain in a fifty-mile radius. You ooze it.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says dryly, smirking like I just proved his point.
“Don’t,” I say flatly. “You might be the smartestmanin the room, but…” I tap the side of my head, dishing out a hint of theself I buried years ago—just for a fleeting second. “You’re not the smartest person.”
That wipes the smirk off his face. He tilts his head slightly, studying me with renewed interest like I just surprised him. I hate how gratifying that tiny moment feels.
He recovers quickly. “Fair enough,” he concedes, his tone lighter now, but there’s something in his gaze that makes my chest tighten. He’s cataloging me, dissecting me—like I’m a puzzle just out of reach.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re wasted in a small-town coffee shop?” he asks suddenly.
The words hit so fast and sharp it takes me a second to process them. My stomach twists as the molten anger rises up again—this time laced with something deeper.
“Has anyone ever told you that your urban superiority complex is showing?” I snap back, the words coming out sharper than I intended.
He doesn’t flinch, though. Instead, a faint, almost genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Point taken,” he says, nodding slightly. “But I wasn’t trying to insult you. There’s just… something about you. The way you handle problems—fast, precise.” He gestures to the mopped floor and the salvaged display. “This isn’t where you learned to think like that.”
I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the nerve he’s brushing up against. Memories flare, unbidden: hours bent over code. A whiteboard so crowded with theories and flowcharts we were practically writing on the walls. Late nights ticking down to impossible deadlines, and the drive—theneed—to build something that mattered.
But that life’s gone. Dead. Burned like the coffee splattered all over the floor.
“I run a coffee shop,” I say coolly, pulling my walls firmly back into place. “Problem-solving comes with the territory.”
He gives me that look again, like he doesn’t believe me but can’t prove otherwise.
“When do you open?” he asks, switching gears so suddenly it’s jarring.
“Why?” I ask warily.
“Because, I might want to get an early start on my day.” he says plainly.
I roll my eyes. “Six a.m.”
His lips twitch again. “I’ll see you then.”
He slings the messenger bag over his shoulder and moves toward the door, but just as he reaches it, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at me. The deliberate pace of his movement sends a flicker of irritation skittering up my spine.
“What now?” I snap, annoyed at the heat crawling into my chest under the weight of his gaze.
