Chapter 8
By the third day, Max has established a pattern. He arrives at seven, orders the coffee, whatever I recommend, and works steadily until closing.
Always the corner booth. My booth.
Always focused, but with moments of distraction when his gaze drifts to the counter or me.
I tell myself his presence is good for business—one guaranteed customer during the slow hours.
What I don't admit is how the atmosphere in Mountain Brew changes when he's there, charged with a current that makes every movement feel deliberate, every glance weighted.
On the fifth day, I'm restocking beans when Audrey Tristan and Hunter Morgan enter, bringing with them a blast of chilly mountain air. They're holding hands, Hunter's build making Audrey look diminutive beside him.
"The feared food critic graces us with her presence." I smile at Audrey. "I thought you were in New York until next month."
"Surprise visit. The magazine's letting me work remotely more often." Audrey's smile is radiant as she glances up at Hunter. Their happiness is both beautiful and a sharp reminder of what I've walled myself off from.
"The usual for both of you?"
"You know it." Hunter's eyes drift to the corner booth, recognition dawning. "Is that—"
Audrey follows his gaze, her food critic instincts visibly activating. "Max Lawson." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Hunter, that's the Nexus Systems founder I showed you in that tech feature last month."
I tense, preparing for the invasion of Max's privacy. But Hunter, bless him, simply nods acknowledgment. "His security software helped the restaurant upgrade our systems last year. Good stuff."
Max looks up, clearly recognizing he's being discussed. I expect him to be annoyed, but instead, he closes his laptop and stands.
"You must be Chef Morgan. Lucas Reid mentioned you're heading up the new farm-to-table program at Timberline."
Hunter seems surprised to be recognized in turn. “That’s right. This is my wife, Audrey Tristan-Morgan. She’s the real celebrity—her culinary reviews have launched more successful restaurants than my cooking.”
Max stands to meet them, grip firm, expression easy. “I read your piece on sustainable tech in commercial kitchens. Smart use of what already exists.”
Audrey brightens. “Thanks. We’re rolling some of those protocols into Hunter’s new kitchen at Timberline.”
I deliver their drinks—steam ribboning up, citrus oil shining on the cappuccino foam—and watch the exchange with a knot of confusion. Max handles the attention smoothly, but tension gathers at the corners of his eyes, a practiced calm stretched too tight.
“We won’t keep you from your work,” Hunter adds, sensing… something. “Just wanted to say your security protocols made a real difference for small businesses like ours.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Max’s mouth lifts; the smile stops short of his eyes. “That’s what we built it for.”
They drift to a window table. Max returns to the booth, opens his laptop, and doesn’t touch the keys. Distance shadows his face.
I pull a chilled bottle of tonic, twist an orange peel, and pack a double shot. Bubbles rise, amber and bright, as espresso meets ice. The glass sweats in my palm while I cross the floor.
I set it down within his reach. Espresso tonic—citrus, clean, a reset. “Try this.”
His gaze snaps to mine when I set the mug in front of him, something flickering in those cool blue eyes—a surprise that deepens into warmth, like I’ve given him more than coffee.
His fingers wrap slowly around the mug, his knuckles brushing against the smooth clay, condensation from the steam beading along the curve of his hand.
It’s a casual enough gesture, but my stupid heart stumbles on the way his hand tightens around it, like he’s anchoring himself with the small comfort I didn’t know I’d meant to give.
He inhales, the faint tangle of cinnamon, piloncillo, and orange peel blending in the charged silence between us.
Then, he takes a slow sip, deeper than I expect, his long throat working it down.
The tension in his brow eases slightly. Another sip—longer this time—and the faint line in his jaw softens too, just a fraction.
“You okay?” The question escapes before I’m ready, barely above a whisper but heavy with meaning I wish I’d kept hidden.
His gaze shifts past me, toward the window, the pale light softening the harsh set of his jaw. “Just… work,” he says, but the pause carries weight.
There’s something more.
“Looks more like brooding.” I lean a hip against the table before I can stop myself, the closeness threading a dangerous pulse through my veins.
One corner of his mouth tips into the suggestion of a grin. “Is there a difference?”
“Thinking is productive," I counter, narrowing my eyes. “Brooding is just marinating in your own stress juices.”
That does it. A laugh breaks free from his mouth, unpolished and real, the kind that sends unexpected warmth pooling low in my belly.
I watch as one hand drags through the perfectly disordered strands of his hair, mussing it just enough to make him look.
.. touchable. The laugh eases him, loosening something I hadn’t realized had been knotted in my chest.
“Fine,” he says, his voice rich with amusement. “I’ll try to simmer in a smarter marinade.”
I should move. Take the cue, step away, leave him alone with his pondering. I should wipe tables, count beans, do anything but keep standing there, caught in the gravity pull that thickens the quiet around us.
Instead, my mouth betrays me. “Do your systems actually help towns like ours?” The honesty in the question is unexpected even to me. “Not just the big guys.”
His posture shifts, like I’ve caught him off guard. His shoulders settle slightly, losing some of the tension I hadn’t realized I’d been tracking. When he speaks, his voice is steady, certain, the timbre of it dropping a little deeper.
“That’s the point. Big clients can afford whole teams. Places like this…
” His finger taps lightly against the mug, the soft chime of ceramic and glass filling the quiet between us.
“They’re exposed. One breach can take out payroll.
Bookings. Havoc for months. We build guardrails that small businesses can afford. ”
The quiet conviction in his voice is unexpected, catching me off guard the same way my question did to him.
It's not rehearsed.
It's something deeper. More personal.
The more he speaks, the more I feel trapped in the orbit of him—steady and warm and far more present than I’d pegged him to be when he first walked through my door.
Warmth presses under my ribs, splintering into something inconvenient and sharp. “That’s… more decent than I gave you credit for.”
His mouth tilts into an easier smile now—softer, reaching his eyes. “Careful. You’ll ruin my tech bro reputation.”
I narrow my eyes, but a traitorous grin pulls at the edge of my lips despite myself. The fact that he clocks my bias and meets it with humor is infuriating. And appealing.
I take a calculated step back—not far, but enough. The citrus from the café de olla lingers in the air, and Max takes another drink like it’s something he needed—not just coffee, but whatever intention I put behind it.
“Good?” I nod at the glass, keeping my focus there instead of on him. Pretending that’s all I care about.
“Sharp. Clean.” He lifts the mug slightly, appraising it, but his eyes stay on mine, pinning me there with something I don’t have the will to name. “Exactly what I needed.”
The pattern holds all week. Max settles into Mountain Brew like he belongs—part espresso machine, part mountain view. People start to clock him, but they respect the invisible perimeter around the corner booth.
I start building drinks for him the way a luthier tunes a violin—tiny shifts, listening for resonance.
A lavender honey latte on Monday. Maple-cinnamon cortado Tuesday.
Wednesday, smoked sea-salt mocha. He always pauses, always tastes like it matters.
The way his shoulders loosen when the balance hits is a problem I pretend not to notice.
Purely professional interest. The clean satisfaction of craft appreciated.
Not the prickle across my skin when he steps through the door. Not the way I time my routes—reaching past him for sugar, clearing his empty demitasse with the same hand that “accidentally” brushes his knuckles, offering a fresh cup the moment the current one cools.
Definitely not the weight of his gaze when he thinks I’m focused on the register.
Friday, Noah swings in alone near the end of the day for a quick coffee, sheriff’s jacket unzipped, spring dust on his boots. I hand over the cup; he leans in, concern tucked behind casual.
“Everything okay with your new regular?”
“Max? Just a customer.” The words come out smooth, practiced.
"Good, just checking in on you." The warning follows me into closing.
The sign is flipped to CLOSED, the room settling into soft clinks and low steam as I wipe tables. Max stays put, last man standing.
The room settles into the comfortable quiet of closing. The espresso machine lets out one last, drawn-out sigh, as though it’s just as tired as I am. The walls exhale too, soft clinks of mugs echoing in the space as I wipe tables, stray dishes finding their way to the sink.
All the while, Max stays where he’s been all day—booth occupied, laptop dark, but his frame just as steady and present as ever. A sharp contrast to the ghost of customers past.
“I can head out if you need to lock up.” His words break the quiet, a low hum that carries far too much weight in the stillness.
“No rush,” I say without thinking, glancing at him before catching frozen mid-wipe. His hand rests on his trackpad, his head tilted faintly. “Sidework left.”
So he stays.