Chapter 3
The morning rush—if you can call eight customers in two hours a rush—keeps me busy enough to almost forget yesterday's disaster.
Almost.
The memory of intense blue eyes and the lingering scent of bergamot cologne proves surprisingly difficult to shake.
I arrive at Mountain Brew at my usual pre-dawn hour, letting myself in through the back entrance.
The quiet of the empty shop has always been comforting, a blank canvas waiting for the day’s rhythm to unfold.
The air smells faintly of yesterday’s espresso and the sharp, clean bite of roasted beans I prepped last night.
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, her hand 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 were sparks.”
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."
I shake my head, touched by the offer but determined to handle my problems on my own. "I appreciate it, Sheriff, but I've got it under control."
"Offer stands." He settles his hat back on his head. "Oh, and Lily? Word of advice from someone who's seen his share of strangers coming through Angel's Peak—not everyone with money and education is out to cause trouble. Sometimes they're just looking for the same thing as the rest of us."
"And what's that?"
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "A decent cup of coffee and a place that feels like it matters." With that cryptic comment, he heads out.
The morning drifts in with the usual parade of locals. I’m arranging a fresh display of mini cinnamon lattes—replacing the casualties from yesterday’s collision. It’s all so predictable, my little bubble of peace.
Until the bell chimes.
My hands still mid-air, cinnamon dust whispering down like a spell half-cast.
He’s back.
Not just back—transformed.
Gone is the rumpled, irritated tech bro from yesterday.
In his place: sleek control draped in a charcoal cashmere sweater that clings to shoulders built for hard labor—or maybe just harder things.
The kind of shoulders you want to lean into, except you'd absolutely never do something so impractical.
His dark hair is artfully tousled again, but this time, it’s intentional. The kind of tousled that invites fingers, whispers promises you have no business exploring. A brand-new laptop is tucked under one arm, sleek and silver, like a postscript on the way he commands the space.
“Good morning.” His voice warms the air instantly, low and deliberate, like a secret murmured against your skin.
Heat flickers straight through me. Not because of him, of course. The espresso machine, maybe. Or the cinnamon. Definitely not him.
I quickly straighten, smoothing my palms over my apron like it’s armor. But it’s not—it’s thin cotton and absolutely no protection from the way he’s watching me. My pulse taps in my throat despite my complete lack of interest in the way his mouth curves slightly. Okay, maybe not complete.
“Your electronic patient didn’t make it?”
“I performed emergency surgery,” he says, each word slow and measured, the barest crook tipping his lips—a smile with a knife’s edge. “But the prognosis wasn’t good.”
I press my mouth into a thin line, trying not to let the heat rising in my cheeks betray me. “Coffee and circuitry make poor companions.”
His gaze sharpens, taking me in with careful precision. He doesn’t just look—he observes. I don’t like the way it makes my insides knot, like he’s peeling back layers I’ve worked too hard to build.
Silence blooms, swelling in the warm, cinnamon-thick air. The espresso machine exhales a slow, sensual hiss, and the hum of conversation fades into a static nothing under the weight of him.
“I owe you an apology,” he says, taking a step closer.
Too close. Close enough, I feel the heat rolling off him, the subtle shift in air every time he moves. Like he’s breaking into my space, not with force, but something worse—effortless ease.
“Oh? For what specifically?” I ask evenly.
“For being… abrupt yesterday. Borderline rude,” he says, his tone quieter now. He pauses, watching me with unapologetic intent, soaking in every reaction like he’s calibrating himself to me.
“Borderline?” I arch a brow and cross my arms.
“My apologies for being an insensitive ass,” he says smoothly, a flicker of something self-aware collecting in his smile.
This time, I let my own mouth curve. “Collision physics tends to bring out the worst in people.”
I busy myself setting a tiny cup back on the refreshed display, but his gaze follows the motion, lingers on my cinnamon-dusted knuckles like I’ve suddenly found a way to fascinate him. And when his eyes drift up, landing on my mouth, my lips inexplicably part before I can stop them.
His voice drops an inch lower. “Still. I should have watched where I was going.”
I manage a nod, an acknowledgment without surrender, tamping down the sudden warmth curling beneath my ribs. “How can I help you today, Mr. Lawson?” My tone sharpens slightly around his name, as if to remind myself to keep the boundary intact. “Another coffee to sacrifice to the laptop gods?”
“Actually…”
His eyes sweep deliberately over the room—not a casual glance, but slow and intentional, like he’s mentally mapping every detail.
The mismatched vintage chairs, local artwork climbing the exposed brick walls.
The copper pendant lights glowing over the wooden tables.
When his gaze locks back onto me, the air feels thinner, the room smaller. Or maybe just warmer.
“I’m looking for a workspace,” he says finally, his tone even but threaded with just the right amount of charm to disarm someone not paying attention. “Minimal distractions. Excellent coffee.” He pauses, his mouth tensing slightly in distaste. “The Haven is too…”
“Busting with wealthy tourists taking selfies with overpriced lattes?” I supply, one brow lifting.
That earns me a real smile—no trace of sarcasm, no restraint. It’s devastating, the kind that ripples under your skin, low and decisive, and it takes everything in me not to flinch under its weight.
“Exactly,” he says, his eyes sparking with something that makes my chest stupidly tight. “I was told your coffee was the best in three counties.”
My lips twitch in response. “Whoever said that isn’t wrong.”
“Confidence.” His gaze sharpens again, but this time, an unmistakable hint of admiration flickers there, heating the space between us. “I like that.”
Stop. Just stop. He doesn’t get to look at me like that.
He glances toward the corner booth tucked beneath one of the big windows—the one with the view of Main Street stretching into the deep greens and whites of the mountains beyond. My booth. My refuge.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to it with a subtle nod.
I stiffen. It’s just a booth. It’s not a piece of my soul—but it feels like one. Letting him sit there is as personal as handing over keys to my house, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
“That’s my booth,”