Chapter 5
The rest of the morning brings a steady stream of customers—the mid-week rush hour that keeps me moving between the espresso machine, register, and pastry case without a moment to breathe.
I fall into the familiar rhythm, each drink a practiced sequence of movements, each customer interaction a well-rehearsed dance.
The noise, the pace, the quick back-and-forth with locals—it’s all comfortable.
Automatic.
And yet, nothing about today feels normal.
Through it all, I’m hyperaware of Max’s presence in the corner booth. Occasionally, I catch him watching me over the top of his laptop, his gaze thoughtful, assessing. It’s not the kind of distracted staring of someone who’s zoning out.
No, it feels far too intentional.
And worse, the look isn’t impatient or displeased—two things I’d expect from some big-shot tech guy stuck in a small-town café.
Instead, it’s laced with quiet curiosity, like he’s figuring out how all the pieces of me fit together.
The idea of him puzzling me out sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
I don’t have time to dwell, though, because they arrive.
Mrs. Winters and her knitting circle sweep through the door punctually at 10:30, nearly taking down a younger couple trying to leave as they charge in a flurry of hand-knit shawls and cheery greetings. They’re my favorite handful of chaos, and their weekly appearance is as reliable as the sunrise.
"The usual for everyone?" I call across the counter before they even have a chance to sit.
"Martha’s watching her caffeine," Mrs. Winters announces, shooting a meaningful glance at the smaller woman fumbling with her oversized tote of yarn. "Doctor’s orders. Something herbal for her."
I tuck my tongue between my teeth to hide my smile when Martha, sulking from beneath her vibrant purple hat, mutters, “If I can’t have caffeine, I’m at least having sugar.”
“I’ll get you something herbal that you’ll love,” I promise. “Chamomile lavender. And if sweetness is the goal, maybe one of the shortbread cookies to go with it?”
Martha brightens slightly at that. “Cookies,” she says, like the word itself is a lifeline. “Yes, please.”
I dive into their usual chaos without complaint, juggling one extra-hot chai tea latte, one half-caf mocha with almond milk, and one vanilla cappuccino, all covered in just the right dusting of cinnamon.
The tea steeps, the espresso brews, and my hands move with clockwork precision as conversation swirls loud and lively around me.
When I glance up, Max has stopped typing.
Briefly, the knitting ladies’ order pulls his attention—his gaze sharp and focused as he tracks the ballet of simultaneous drink preparations.
There’s no hint of mockery in his observation, only interest, as though he’s taking in the choreography of my movements the same way he evaluates everything else.
But then, inevitably, the knitting circle notices him.
“You’re new,” Mrs. Winters calls across the café without hesitation, aiming her voice like a bullhorn. Max, entirely unprepared, leans back slightly in his seat, caught mid-thought. His eyes flick to her as if he’s bracing for whatever’s coming next.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers politely, inclining his head.
“You’re the tech fellow staying at The Haven, aren’t you?” Mrs. Winters presses, taking his startled acknowledgment as a license to dig deeper.
“Seems that I am,” Max responds, a faint smile pulling at his lips. If he’s irritated by her over-familiarity, he hides it well. There’s even an amused glint in his eyes, like he’s waiting to see where this is going.
“How do you find our Lily’s coffee? Better than those fancy city shops, I’d wager.”
I freeze. The espresso machine wheezes behind me, and for a split second, I consider fleeing into the kitchen and pretending none of this is happening.
But Max takes it in stride. “Significantly better,” he says, his voice smooth, warm. He glances in my direction, then, eyes catching mine briefly before he looks back at Mrs. Winters. “There’s care in every step.”
Mrs. Winters beams, utterly charmed as if Max just handed her a basket of roses. “Told you,” she announces proudly to the group. “Our Lily’s a treasure. Studied coffee science, didn’t you, Lily?”
I stiffen, managing to keep a neutral expression as I focus on finishing Martha’s tea. I’ve never been good at being the center of attention, especially when Mrs. Winters decides to highlight bits of my background. “Just years of practice,” I deflect, keeping my tone light.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Martha says, the shameless busybody chiming in. “Eleanor said you’ve got some kind of degree in coffee chemistry.”
I can feel Max’s interest sharpen from across the room, his gaze pinning me as effectively as if he’d spoken. This is exactly the kind of conversation I didn’t want him to overhear.
“Just a few courses,” I say smoothly. "Nothing special." The lie slips easily from my lips, ingrained after years of burying the truth. My past doesn’t belong here—especially not with him.
“Well, we’re proud of you,” Mrs. Winters says when I deposit their drinks. She pats my arm like a proud grandmother. “Not many people around here with your kind of expertise.”
I retreat to the counter as quickly as possible, feeling Max’s gaze burn into my back the entire way. I don’t dare look at him, but the weight of his curiosity wraps around me like a living thing.
For the next hour, I pretend he doesn’t exist—and fail spectacularly.
Every time I catch the flex of his fingers on the keyboard or the slow shift of his shoulders as he stretches, he pulls my attention like gravity.
Worse, I know he notices. I can feel it in the way the space between us feels warmer, tighter, whenever I glance in his direction.
And then his phone rings.
“Lawson,” he says, answering with practiced efficiency. The tone of his voice snaps something into the air—a sharpness that commands attention, even from across the room.
He pushes to his feet and moves toward the window, the sun cutting a sharp outline against him. All that lean strength wrapped in charcoal cashmere. All that certainty.
“Yes, I’ve reviewed the beta issues,” he says, pacing slowly. His tone deepens, resonant but sharp, reaching into spaces it has no right to reach. “The security protocols are my primary concern. No, I won’t compromise on that.”
I can’t stop watching him. The deliberate pace, the precise movements of his hand as it gestures lightly—it’s like he’s bending the world around him with nothing more than words. It makes every inch of my skin feel hot and tight. Too much.
“Three weeks,” he says, turning slightly, the sunlight casting heat across his expression. His jaw tightens, and even from here, I can see the furrow of his brow as he listens. “No. We’re not chasing competitors. We do this right, or we don’t do it at all.”
It’s not just what he says—it’s the way he says it. The quiet command threaded through every word. The unshakable calm that tells you he’s used to getting exactly what he wants. The particular timbre of his voice does dangerous things to my pulse.
When he returns to his seat, the relaxed man savoring coffee is gone. What’s left is sharper, more dangerous—a wolf slipping back into its skin but still carrying the scent of the hunt.
He sits, the sweater stretching over his chest as he leans to adjust the laptop. My eyes betray me, tracking the way his forearm flexes, the way his fingers curl around the edge of the table like he could crush it if he wanted.
Heat blooms low, sudden and insistent, chasing up my spine and settling just beneath my ribs. My hands fuss with a stack of mugs that don’t need straightening, anything to keep from staring at the man who just turned a simple phone call into something I felt in my bones.
His jaw is still hard from whatever decision he just enforced, but when he glances at me, some of the tension softens. I freeze under the intensity of it, wondering—not for the first time—what it would feel like to have that focus, that unshakable command, directed entirely on me.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve dated confident men before, but there’s something about him—about that calm certainty, the way he moves like he owns every square inch of space he steps into—that makes the air in here feel heavier.
Thicker.
Because a part of me knows he’s the kind of man who doesn’t just break walls. He tears them down piece by piece, then dares you to thank him for it.
And God help me, a part of me wants to know what it would feel like to have that focus, that command, turned entirely on me.
I don’t want to date him… I want to be consumed by him.
As if the thought drags him to me, his head lifts. That same sharp, unblinking intensity from the call locks onto me, pinning me mid-fuss with the mugs. It’s a touch without contact—warm, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
“Careful, Lily.” His voice is low, smooth, still carrying that edge of authority. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start to think you want my attention.” A pause, a slow curve of his mouth. “If you’re going to stare, you might as well pull up a chair.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I murmur, the word slipping out before I can stop it, softer than I mean it to be. “I didn’t realize—”
One brow lifts, his gaze holding mine a fraction too long, making the apology feel like more than an exchange of manners.
The bell above the door chimes, snapping the connection.
Ruth Fletcher bustles in, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, leather jacket creaking as she moves.