Page 9 of Colliding with the Coffee Shop Owner
Normally, the stillness soothes me. Today, however, my eyes keep darting toward the front door, my pulse jumping at every imagined creak of the hinges, wondering if he’ll return.
Not that I care. If anything, it would be a relief never to see Max Lawson again.
Eleanor arrives on time at six fifteen, bundled in her oversized scarf, muttering about the morning chill. She beelines for the counter like a woman crossing a desert for water, herhand already outstretched for the steaming dark roast I slide her way—black, no sugar, as medicinal to her as penicillin.
Usually, she lingers for a full five minutes, sipping and dropping hints about the latest goings-on in Angel’s Peak. This morning, she hesitates instead of flitting out the door.
“So…” Her gaze narrows over the rim of her cup. “Are we going to talk about Coffee-Gate?”
“Coffee-Gate?” I pretend to wipe down the already spotless counter.
Her brows shoot up. “Don’t play innocent with me, Lily Brock. Half this town knows Max Lawson showed up yesterday, and you dumped coffee all over him. Darlene said there weresparks.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You are entirely too much of a romantic. There were no sparks, Eleanor. Just a misunderstanding over coffee.”
She tilts her head, studying me like a puzzle she’s determined to solve. “Funny, because Darlene swears you were flushed when he left, and she doesn’t miss a thing.”
The bell above the door jingles before I have to answer. Mayor Reynolds himself steps in, right on cue, wrapped in his olive trench coat against the lingering morning chill. His usual—double Americano, extra hot—waits on the counter before he’s halfway across the shop. He smiles in that polite, distracted way of a man already planning his day, drops a few bills in the tip jar, and heads back out.
The next wave rolls in not long after.
George and Martha Washington shuffle in together, snow still clinging to George’s boots. Martha orders her spiced chai with oat milk; he gets his black coffee with one sugar, no stir, because he swears the sugar dissolves better on its own.
I don’t need to ask anyone what they want. After two years, I’ve got the town’s caffeine quirks memorized as well as my own heartbeat.
Late morning, Dr. Cole Blake stops by for his cappuccino with exactly one shake of cinnamon and no foam spilling over the lip of the cup. Mrs. Winters collects her lavender latte with a drizzle of honey, while Margie and Harold from the bakery—both barely awake despite running their own morning business—grumble for iced mochas even though it's barely twenty degrees outside.
Sheriff Donovan strides in at a quarter to eight, his uniform pressed, badge gleaming, gun riding easy at his hip—the very picture of small-town authority.
"Morning, Lily." His weathered face creases into a smile. "The usual, please."
"One step ahead of you, Sheriff." I'm already preparing his black coffee, adding the single pump of vanilla he pretends not to want.
The corner of his mouth twitches when I slide his drink across the counter.
He settles at the counter, removing his hat and placing it beside him. "Heard you had some excitement yesterday. Tech fellow spilled coffee all over himself?"
I suppress a sigh. Of course, the story has already made the rounds, though with notable inaccuracies. "Other way around. I spilled coffee on his laptop."
"Ah. That explains why Darlene's version had you heroically saving expensive equipment with quick thinking and rice." He accepts his coffee with a nod of thanks. "Town gossip—better than any police scanner for spreading information, worse than any witness statement for accuracy."
"I wouldn't call anything about the interaction heroic," I mutter, wiping down the already spotless counter.
Eleanor is still perched on her stool, sipping her coffee like she has nowhere else to be. Which means she’s waiting for me to crack.
I busy myself with the grinder. “You can stop staring. There’s nothing to tell.”
“Mm-hmm.” She leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
Sheriff Donovan studies me with the shrewd assessment of someone who's spent decades reading people. "Lucas says this Lawson fellow is some big shot from California. Security software or something."
"So I've heard." I busy myself with the pastry case, arranging muffins that don't need arranging.
"Might be good for business, having a tech celebrity hanging around." He sips his coffee thoughtfully. "Though I imagine that depends on whether he comes back after you baptized his computer with coffee."
Despite myself, I laugh. "Not my finest customer service moment."
"We all have off days." Sheriff Donovan stands, dropping a five-dollar bill in the tip jar. "Speaking of which, need me to have a word with your landlord about that rent increase? Might be able to apply a little official persuasion."
