Page 72 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
Max slows our pace, expression thoughtful in the moonlight. "Actually, I've been considering alternatives."
My heart stutters. "What kind of alternatives?"
"Remote work, primarily. At least part-time." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "The pandemic normalized remote work. There's no technical reason I need to be in Palo Alto full-time."
Hope flutters dangerous wings in my chest. "You'd consider working from... elsewhere?"
"I'd consider working from wherever I felt most creative and focused." His eyes meet mine, his meaning clear without being explicit. "Silicon Valley has advantages, but also significant drawbacks. Constant competitive pressure and a lack of work-life balance."
"And Angel's Peak?" The question emerges barely above a whisper.
Chapter 25
The calendaron the wall behind the counter has become my enemy. Each morning, I resist the urge to tear off the page, as if destroying the physical reminder might stop time's relentless march.
Days remain until Max's departure, and the knowledge colors everything with bittersweet urgency.
"Order up for table four!" Max calls from behind the espresso machine, his movements confident after weeks of informal training. The sight of him there—sleeves rolled up, concentration evident in the slight furrow between his brows as he creates perfect microfoam—feels simultaneously right and heartbreaking.
"Since when do you take orders?" I tease, collecting the cappuccino he's prepared. The rosetta pattern on top is nearly perfect, a testament to how quickly he absorbs new skills.
"Since your online orders doubled after the website launch." His smile carries pride untainted by the smugness I initially expected from a tech CEO. "Someone has to keep the caffeine flowing while you handle shipping logistics."
The changes at Mountain Brew border on miraculous. The online store Max created has attracted customers from Denverto Salt Lake City, specialty coffee enthusiasts willing to pay premium prices for my unique blends. The automated inventory system has streamlined ordering, reducing waste and increasing margins. Even the in-store experience has evolved, with a tablet-based loyalty program replacing the old punch cards.
Throughout it all, Max has integrated himself into daily operations with surprising humility—learning coffee basics, greeting regular customers by name, and troubleshooting technical issues without making me feel incompetent. The shop feels as much his as mine now, a transformation I never anticipated.
"The website analytics look promising." Max joins me during the mid-afternoon lull, tablet in hand displaying colorful graphs of customer engagement. "You've got returning customers already, and the subscription feature is gaining traction."
I study the data, pride mingling with melancholy. "It's more successful than I imagined possible for Mountain Brew."
"Just the beginning." His confidence is infectious. "The foundation is solid. You could expand into wholesale, develop signature brewing equipment, maybe even franchise eventually."
The future he envisions stretches beyond anything I've allowed myself to consider since BrewTech—ambitious but achievable with the systems we've built together. A future that necessarily continues without him managing it alongside me.
"One step at a time." I cover my conflicted emotions with practicality. "Let's see if I can handle shipping orders without you double-checking my packing slips."
His expression softens as he understands the unspoken concern. "You were running this place brilliantly before I showed up. You'll continue to do so after..." He doesn't finish the sentence, the word "leave" hovering unspoken between us.
We've developed an unspoken agreement to avoid direct discussion of his departure, dancing around the topic with euphemisms. "When you're back in California," or "After your trip ends," or "When things return to normal"—as if his absence will be temporary, a brief interruption rather than a fundamental reshaping of my daily reality.
"Close up early with me today?" I change the subject, unwilling to dwell on the inevitable separation. "There's somewhere I want to take you while the weather's perfect."
Curiosity brightens his expression. "Mystery location?"
"Somewhere special." A place I've shared with no one else since moving to Angel's Peak. "Bring a jacket. The evenings still get cool."
We close the shop at four, leaving a note for any disappointed customers. The spring afternoon bathes Angel's Peak in golden light, softening the mountain's rugged edges. Max follows my lead as I drive us to the Lookout Point trailhead, understanding this is something significant without needing explanation.
"Moderate hike, about thirty minutes." I shoulder a small backpack containing water and a blanket. "Not too strenuous, but the payoff is worth every step."
The trail winds through pine forest before gradually ascending toward exposed granite outcroppings. Spring wildflowers dot the path—purple lupine, bright yellow balsamroot, and delicate white phlox —creating natural gardens amid the rocks. We walk in comfortable silence, occasionally pointing out particularly striking views or unusual plants.
As we climb higher, Angel's Peak reveals itself from new angles—the town appears smaller with each elevation gain, and the surrounding mountains become more majestic. Finally, the trail curves around a massive boulder to reveal my destination—a small natural plateau jutting out from the mountainside, providing unobstructed views across the entire valley.
"Here we are." I spread the blanket on the smooth stone warmed by the afternoon sun. "My thinking spot."
Max stands at the edge, taking in the panorama with wonder. The town lies below us like a miniature model, the lake reflecting the sky, mountains stretching to the horizon in layered blue ridges.
