Chapter 10
Max’s arrival slices into the quiet hum of the shop. Outside, the pale morning light has begun to stretch itself across the street, but inside, the air shifts the moment he steps through the door.
There's a brief gust of mountain chill that follows him in, clinging to his cashmere sweater—dark slate today, like the morning sky threatening rain. He pauses near the door, a single nod for me across the room, his mouth curving—barely—at the edges when his gaze flicks to the corner booth.
It’s already waiting for him.
The glass water bottle sweats with condensation beside a slim thrift-store vase holding two sprigs of purple lupine and a daisy, fresh from the side garden. In front of the vase, propped against the salt cellar, sits a small hand-lettered card:
Today: Single-origin Yirgacheffe — pour-over.
Flavors: Blueberry, cocoa, and jasmine as it cools.
Max studies the card for a moment, the smallest crease forming between his brows before his hand drops to brush the corner of it with one finger—gentle, deliberate.
His laptop and notebook fall into their usual lineup on the table, his pen sliding parallel to the edge.
His phone is face down near the water, as always.
When he settles into the booth, his shoulders lose the tension he carries through the door, like he’s shrugging off weight that doesn’t belong in here. The quiet of the shop seems to wrap around him the way it does me before opening hours.
His finger trails across the edge of the card again, his touch reverent. He doesn’t pick it up, doesn’t distract with chatter, nods slightly, the curve of his mouth deepening.
The grinder hums as I measure the beans, the aroma of blueberry and soft cocoa pressing into the warm air. The coffee blooms beneath the first pour, soft spirals of water teasing jasmine into the steam. Each pass of the kettle is steady, deliberate.
My body has memorized this movement. My hands move mechanically, but my focus remains fractured, trailing back to him—to the careful way he cradles his water bottle and scans the rising steam from the coffee, to how this all feels automatic now, like he belongs here as a fixture of the shop.
I walk over his first cup of the day, steam blooming from the rich roast.
“Pour-over to start,” I murmur, stopping beside the table. “You’ll get the blueberry if you let it sit.”
“Thank you.”
When I set the ceramic mug beside him, he doesn’t reach for it right away. His hands settle around the cup like he’s absorbing its warmth through his skin, holding onto the moment before the sip.
His lashes brush once against his cheek as his eyes shut for a heartbeat, and when he raises the cup to his lips, his shoulders drop another fraction. The simple act of drinking coffee looks like something sacred when he does it.
It’s unnerving. And captivating.
The bell jingles again, pulling my gaze from him. Eleanor shuffles inside, her thick scarf tucked into her coat, fingers tight around her coin purse. Her movements are slower than usual, and her left knee appears to be stiff.
“Morning, Eleanor.” I offer her a warm smile. “Doing okay?"
"Ah, yes. It’s just the weather. A storm’s blowing in. At least, that’s what my knee’s telling me. It’s more reliable than the weatherman, you know."
"I know." I laugh at her weather knee, and she’s not wrong. It’s more reliable than the weatherman. "Dark roast today?”
“Yes, please. You know what I like.”
Max looks up from his table. His mouth curves into that faint smile of his, the one I’m starting to see as a replacement for words he’d rather not say. The tension that always lingers in his frame has slipped away entirely, and he stands, his hands loose at his sides, easy as ever.
“Have a seat,” he says, his voice mellow, his movements fluid. “I’ll run it over.”
“Oh,” Eleanor says, startled but smiling all the same.
She waves one hand dismissively, but it does nothing to stop him as he steps closer to the counter.
“You don’t have to, but that’s so sweet of you.
” She tucks herself into her favorite corner table near the window, wincing only slightly as she eases into the chair across from Max.
Her gaze shifts to me, glinting in the morning light, to where I stand behind the counter, watching, assessing, calculating.
Meddling.
Max holds my gaze briefly as I prepare Eleanor’s dark roast behind the bar. The mug fills, steam rising in soft ribbons through the air.
When I slide it to the end of the counter, he’s already there waiting, his hands braced lightly on the edge.
His fingers curl around the mug—careful, delicate—as though he’s holding something breakable.
There’s a casual sort of ease about him now, but there’s also something intentional in the way he moves, like he enjoys anticipating the steps before they need to happen.
As he walks the mug to Eleanor’s table, he dodges a group of high schoolers who rush in and salivate over the pastry case.
“You’ll spoil me,” Eleanor says as the dark roast touches the table in front of her.
“Working on it,” Max replies, the line almost cocky but landing softly instead, some subtle warmth threaded through his words.
She clasps her hands, blowing lightly on the surface of the coffee. “Lily never spoils me like this.”
The interaction is short and simple. He doesn’t look at me when he slides past the counter again, but my body betrays me regardless—my chest tightening, stomach flipping against my will.
Eleanor's eyes twinkle with mischief as she turns her attention to me. "You should know that Ruth Fletcher is planning to corner you about the Rocky Mountain Coffee Championship."
My hands still on the coffee carafe. "What about it?"
"It's being held in Riverdale next month. First time it's been this close to Angel's Peak." She watches my reaction closely. "Ruth thinks your specialty lattes should be entered. Said your cinnamon latte is 'competition-worthy.’"
"I happen to agree." Max turns to me. "Your blends are special, Lily. The kind that deserve recognition beyond this town."
I busy myself wiping down the already spotless counter, mind racing.
The Rocky Mountain Coffee Championship is a prestigious event in the specialty coffee world.
Winners often receive national attention, distribution deals, opportunities to expand.
The kind of exposure I've deliberately avoided since leaving BrewTech.
"I don't do competitions," I say finally.
"Maybe you should." Eleanor sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. "Hiding your light under a bushel serves no one, least of all yourself."
Before I can respond, a group of hikers enters, saving me from further discussion. The morning continues in a flurry of activity—the pre-storm rush as locals stock up on caffeine before hunkering down at home.
The last hiker shuffles away, backpack jingling. Max's empty cup slides across the bartop. He taps twice on its rim—our signal that has evolved without ever being discussed. When I approach, his eyes lift from the glass, meeting mine with that careful neutrality he's perfected.
"Surprise me," he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
"Something you'd drink." The request hangs between us, more intimate than it should be—as if he's asking to taste something of me, not just liquor.
His mouth twitches—just barely—the edge of his jaw tightening over some thought I want to reach out and pluck from his head.
Ice clinks. Tonic fizzes clear. I pull a tight double—crema banded gold—then float it over the bubbles. Orange oils spray under my thumb, perfuming the glass.
Max doesn’t rush the drink, letting the orange and coffee mingle across his tongue like it’s worth savoring. His fingers rest lightly on the side of the glass, tracing lazy circles over the condensation. He glances up then, catching my eye as I pass near his table.
“Damn,” he says, voice low but cutting through the soft hum of the café. His lids lower like he’s enjoying some private relief. “That’s good.” One corner of his mouth tugs up, the smallest smile curling there. “I’d say you’re spoiling me, but I don’t want it to stop.”
He says it like it’s a joke, but something flickers in his tone, quiet, almost unguarded. The words land square in my chest, making me grip the edge of my towel tighter than necessary.
I tilt my head at him instead, unfazed. “Careful, Lawson,” I say, sliding a small dish of candied orange peel toward the corner of his table. Its sticky sweetness glistens faintly in the muted sunlight. “You’ll start to expect special treatment.”
His fingers reach for the dish. He plucks a thin strip of orange, holding it between his thumb and forefinger like it’s evidence of some larger truth.
“Expect?” His brow arches. “I’m already ruined by it.
” He gestures with the glass in a small tilt toward me.
“By you.” His voice loses its mock gravity, dropping quieter.
“I mean, let’s be honest—how am I supposed to drink coffee anywhere else now? ”
I laugh under my breath, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. “Pretty sure Starbucks’ll survive if I stop ruining you.”
If there’s a compliment lingering underneath, I don’t acknowledge it. I don’t trust myself to. Instead, I return behind the bar as the door jingles and two contractors step inside, sawdust and cold clinging to their heavy boots.
Their boisterous energy breaks the thread of wherever our conversation was going, and I busy myself by pulling a double shot for their macchiato order.
A few minutes later, while the contractors dig into their coffees and warm blueberry scones, I clear a stray cup from a nearby table to give myself an excuse to glance toward Max again.
The scene hasn’t changed much. His laptop glows faintly, a notepad sits slightly off-center next to it, and his sleek pen now lies down at an angle across the page, as though it had been dropped mid-thought.
His left hand hovers over the espresso tonic, circling the glass absently while his mind works in quieter ways than those contractors ever could.
The corner booth matches him, now more his space than mine.
The glass water bottle glints in the sunlight streaming through the window, the thrift-shop vase leaning slightly with its lupines and solitary daisy, and my card—our small, running catalog of drinks and recommendations—is propped upright where he leaves it.
He settles seamlessly into the heartbeat of the café, like he’s always belonged here, though it feels unnerving for all the ways he hasn’t. And yet, it’s impossible to untangle his rhythm from mine now—he’s a fixture. Expected. Predictable, but quietly disruptive in all the ways that matter.
I return to the machine, falling into my own rhythm, weaving between incoming orders and stolen glances toward his booth.
Another hour ticks by, and even in the midst of the small mid-morning crowd, the soft taps of his keyboard somehow thread through the space, syncing with the scrape of mugs, the occasional burst of laughter, the low hum of conversations.
A quiet exchange we’ve never discussed but have come to understand the rules of—he doesn’t look at me when he places the empty glass at the edge of his table, leaving just enough room for something new.
I step toward the back bar where I’ve already set the ingredients for the next drink.
Am I spoiling him?
Possibly.
But spoiling him offers a strange kind of satisfaction I haven’t felt in years, and somehow I don’t want to stop.
By eleven, I switch the card at his table again.
Next: Maple-cinnamon cortado. Short. Intense.
I tamp a tight basket, watch the first amber strands strip into tiger-tailed crema.
Milk, not quite as hot; cinnamon dusted fine, maple folded through the foam.
I set the glass down and wait. He lifts it, inhales like he’s memorizing the scent.
The sip is small, deliberate. Tongue pressing to his palate to catch the spice.
“Dangerous,” he murmurs, and the word skates under my skin.
The lunch lull settles. The afternoon passes, and I set the next card down at his table when he steps away to take a call. When he returns to the booth, he lifts my card.
If you make it to four p.m.: Dark-chocolate chili mocha. Heat under sweet.
He taps the edge with his pen, eyes lifting to meet mine across the room. No smile. Just recognition. A promise that he’ll be here at four.
I turn to the grinder, cinnamon and cocoa already waiting, and tell myself this is good business. The steam rising from the pitcher argues otherwise.