Page 76 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
"You don't have to say it back," he interrupts, thumb brushing my cheek. "That's not why I told you. I couldn't get on that plane without you knowing."
I swallow hard, searching for words that could possibly contain the magnitude of what I feel. "I'm falling in love with you, too," I finally whisper. "It terrifies me how quickly this happened, but it's real. More real than anything I've felt in years."
His smile transforms his entire face, relief and joy replacing the tension that had lined his features. He kisses me again, briefer but no less intense, before reluctantly releasing me.
"Sixteen days," he reminds me, picking up his bags.
"I'll be counting," I promise, forcing myself to step back, to let him go.
I watch him walk away, shoulders straight, confidence in every step despite the occasional glance back. Only when he disappears into the terminal do I allow myself to acknowledge the hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs.
The empty space of Max's absence follows me through the next week like a shadow. I throw myself into Mountain Brew, experimenting with new blends, deep-cleaning equipment, reorganizing storage—anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from wandering to the question ofus.
True to his word, Max calls that first night from his San Francisco apartment. Our conversation is careful, focusing on his flight and the weather, avoiding the looming decision he faces. The second night is much the same. By the third, I'm beginning to accept that maybe this is our future—politedistance and gradual fading, the inevitable cooling of what burned so bright in Angel's Peak.
When Max doesn't call on the fourth night, I tell myself it's for the best. A clean break. The beginning of the end I knew was coming from the start.
Day five brings a downpour that matches my mood. The late winter rain washes away the last of the snow, turning Angel's Peak into a landscape of mud and slush. Business is slow, customers unwilling to venture out in the deluge.
I'm preparing to close early when the bell chimes, sending a spray of raindrops across the floor as Eleanor Morgan hobbles in, her silver braids darkened with water.
"Land's sake, it's coming down out there." She shakes her umbrella, sending another shower of droplets across the entryway. "You got any of that cinnamon concoction left? Need something to warm these old bones."
"Of course." I move to prepare her latte, grateful for the distraction. "Didn't expect to see you braving the storm."
Eleanor settles at the counter, her shrewd eyes tracking my movements. "Had to check on a delivery. Special order coming in for Mountain Brew."
I frown, setting her mug before her. "I didn't order anything."
"Didn't say you did." Her eyes twinkle with the mischief that's made her Angel's Peak's most notorious matchmaker. "Said it was coming in for Mountain Brew."
As if on cue, the bell chimes again. This time it's Jason from The Haven, soaked to the skin and grunting with effort as he maneuvers a large crate through the door.
"Where'd you want this, Ms. Morgan?" Jason calls, not seeming to notice me gaping at the wooden crate. "It's heavy as sin."
"Right there by the counter is fine." Eleanor sips her latte calmly, as if mysterious crates appear in my shop every day. "Careful with it, boy. That's high-end equipment."
"What is going on?" I demand, looking between them. "I didn't order any equipment."
Jason shrugs, producing a clipboard from his jacket. "Just delivering what came off the truck. Need your signature."
I sign automatically, still bewildered as Jason departs with a cheerful wave, leaving puddles in his wake. The crate sits imposingly in my shop, its top stamped with a logo I recognize immediately—La Marzocco, makers of the world's finest espresso machines. The kind I've dreamed of owning but could never afford.
"Eleanor," I begin slowly, "what is this?"
"Open it and see." She finishes her latte with a satisfied smack of lips. "Don't worry about the mess. That's why we brought it in the rain. Hard to tell what's water and what's coffee when it's all wet, eh?"
My heart thuds painfully as I locate a crowbar behind the counter. With trembling hands, I pry open the top of the crate. Inside, nestled in protective padding, gleams the copper and steel body of a custom La Marzocco—the most beautiful machine I've ever seen. A small envelope rests atop it, my name written in familiar handwriting.
I open it with unsteady fingers, aware of Eleanor watching with barely contained excitement.
For the perfect blend. Sorry, I'm late—had some business to arrange. Turn around. -M
The bell chimes a third time. I whirl to find Max standing in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his hair, his smile tentative but unmistakably hopeful.
"Special delivery," he says softly.
The crowbar clatters to the floor as I launch myself across the room and into his arms, not caring about the water soaking into my clothes. He catches me easily, lifting me off my feet in an embrace that feels like coming home.
