Chapter 11
A storm alert cuts through the lingering rhythm of the café's afternoon lull, sharp and undeniable.
"Angel's Peak and surrounding communities should prepare for severe winter conditions," the weather announcer's voice crackles through my phone speaker.
"The National Weather Service has issued a winter storm warning beginning this afternoon through tomorrow morning.
Accumulations of two to three feet are expected at higher elevations, with wind gusts up to forty miles per hour creating white-out blizzard conditions.
Travel will be impossible in many areas.
Residents are advised to prepare for power outages and—"
I silence it with a tap of my thumb, already glancing toward the windows. The glass fogs faintly at the edges, but I can still see the sky outside, dull and heavy with thickening clouds that cling to the peaks and spill downward like smoke.
Snow hasn’t started falling heavily yet, just the occasional flurry dusting the street like sugar, but the familiar pressure sits low in the air, warning me it won’t hold for long.
Storms in Angel’s Peak might start slow, but when they arrive, they have teeth—sharp, dangerous, and unpredictable, catching even locals off guard.
The bell jingles, and I blow out a breath, glancing reflexively toward the door.
“Afternoon, Lily.”
Not Max.
Mayor Reynolds enters, stamping the dusting of snow from his boots onto the mat by the door. His coat is unzipped—an optimistic sign that won’t last long—and he rubs his hands together briskly as he makes his way to the counter.
“Afternoon, Mayor.”
“Quite the system moving in.” He jerks his chin toward the windows as I move to pour his usual Americano.
“I just heard the alert,” I reply, sliding the warm cup across the counter.
He wraps his chilled hands around it, cradling it with visible relief as though the ceramic itself could will the storm away.
“Bad enough to shut the town down?” I ask.
“Highway patrol’s already getting ready to close Route 14. Donovan’s got his deputies out, keeping an eye on key points. It’s going to hit fast and nasty—like a mule kick to the gut. I’d suggest closing up early and getting home while you can. This one’s going to be a doozy.”
I tilt my head to the windows again, watching as the clouds pull closer like curtains dropping over the peaks. “I appreciate the warning.”
He nods and drops an extra dollar in the tip jar before pausing. His smirk, small but deliberate, creeps onto his face. “Where’s your shadow today?”
There’s no need to ask who he means, and I pretend the light flush creeping into my cheeks doesn’t exist. “Outside, on a call.”
I think.
His gaze lingers a second longer than it should, teasing without words.
“Well…when he gets back, tell him he ought to head back to The Haven sooner rather than later. Once those mountain roads ice over, even four-wheel drive will be no good, and with white-out conditions expected, traveling on foot won’t just be inconvenient. It'll be deadly.”
The bell over the door jingles, and I freeze. A gust of cold bites at my ankles as the door opens wide. I spin toward the entrance, already expecting to see him standing there.
But it’s not Max.
A middle-aged couple stumbles into the shop instead. Their outdoor gear is pristine—bright orange and black jackets layered over tech-savvy thermal pants, their boots barely scuffed from wear. They shed snowflakes in a hurry, their expressions harried as they approach me.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman says first, her gloved hands fumbling with the zipper of her jacket. “Do you have somewhere…somewhere we could wait out the storm? We didn’t realize it was supposed to get this bad.”
Her partner follows closely, shaking snow from his hair. “We were hiking down from Sunrise Ridge Trail when it started picking up. By the time we got to the car, the roads were already impossible to navigate.”
"Storm’s catching everyone off guard.” I gesture toward the nearest table. “You can sit as long as you need, but you may want to get back to your lodging sooner rather than later. Let me get you something warm.”
The woman wastes no time, collapsing into a chair with a visible shiver while the man lingers at her side, scanning the café as though trying to orient himself. His eyes linger at the corner booth, Max’s usual spot—in its predictable order: vase, card, everything waiting exactly as it was.
"Where are you staying?" Mayor Reynolds asks.
"Up at the lodge," the man says.
"You’re in luck, I can give you a ride, but Lily’s got a point. We need to leave now. The roads won’t be passable for much longer."
“Thanks,” the woman mumbles. “We really didn’t think—”
“You’re fine,” Reynolds assures them. "I’m headed up there as it is. More than happy to give you a lift." He turns to me. "Lily, make sure you close up and head home before it gets much worse."
“I’m on it.”
After the mayor leaves with the couple, I prep for an early closure. My steps are quick, my movements more deliberate than usual as I count the till, stack pastry boxes, and double-check the windows against the wind that howls harder with every passing minute.
The storm outside is relentless—snow swirling in thick, chaotic gusts past the streetlights, clawing at the glass. It’s only mid-afternoon, but the heavy, low-hanging clouds make it feel like dusk.
I’m just finishing a final wipe of the counter when the bell chimes. My heart jumps—half from relief, half from the nervous energy that’s been building between glimpses at the clock.
Max steps inside, a cold-stung blur of gray wool and damp edges.
His coat and boots are coated in thick layers of fresh snow, flakes clinging stubbornly to his sleeves and collar, while stray droplets melt and streak down his cashmere scarf.
His dark hair is damp too, dripping slightly at the ends, a few beads of water slipping down the curve of his cheekbone and jaw.
He stops just inside the door, planting both feet firmly on the mat, and stomps hard to shake off the snow. One gloved hand drags across his jaw, swiping away some of the damp before he glances toward me, his chest rising with a sharp breath like he’s just walked straight through a blizzard.
“Have you seen what’s happening out there?” he asks, voice clipped but tinged with something lighter, something that sounds closer to relief than frustration. He unwinds his scarf, tugging it loose and tossing it into his palm. “The road to The Haven is already nearly impassable.”
“You’re frozen.” I can’t stop staring at him for a moment, taking in the mess of snow and cold against his otherwise sleek, comfortable exterior. "Did you drive down in this?"
"No."
"Then how did you—"
"Walked. Thought I’d enjoy the snowfall." He exhales sharply. "Did not expect how fast the storm would get."
“Walked? You shouldn’t even be outside.”
“I know. But I wanted to see if you needed any help.” He shrugs, a faint curve at the edge of his mouth, though his movements are stiff with cold. Snowflakes scatter from his sleeves as he tugs at the zipper of his coat.
“Help?” I tilt my head toward the gray-white chaos outside.
"Yeah." He exhales, short and sharp as he pulls free of his coat, draping it over his arm. Despite the cold clinging to his skin, he looks warm in that steady, self-possessed way I’ve learned is just him.
His hand runs through his damp hair where the snow’s melted, a casual kind of gesture that seems more like instinct than thought.
My eyes flick toward his booth, unchanged since this morning. The card propped by the vase. I’d almost forgotten it was still there, like a quiet placeholder for every moment I spent glancing toward the door, waiting for him to walk in.
I fold the towel and lean back against the counter. “You shouldn’t have risked it.”
“And miss the chance to play hero? Never.” His lips twitch, that faint smile appearing again as he steps deeper into the warmth of the café, snow trailing in damp patches across the hardwood.
There’s enough lightness in the words to make me roll my eyes. But the way his smile lingers—gentle at the edges, something a little too close to sincerity glinting just behind it—keeps my response lodged in my throat.
Instead, I nod toward the corner booth. “Well, your booth is still waiting. Untouched.”
“Good,” he says, stepping away with a new ease, peeling off a glove and dropping it into his coat pocket. “Didn’t want to risk losing my card collection. Wouldn’t know what to drink without you.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, but I shake my head, letting out a soft laugh I hope will deflect the strange little ache threading through his words.
“We’ve got work to do if we’re getting out of here before the roads disappear.
The storm's accelerating, and everyone is hunkering down.
" I study his appearance more carefully, noticing the shadows under his eyes and tension in his jaw.
"You really should head back if you want any chance of making it. "
His brows furrow.
"Everything okay?" I ask, surprising myself with the concern in my voice.
"Just..." He runs a hand through his snow-damp hair. "Technical difficulties. Been working since four this morning trying to solve an encryption issue."
"Wait here." I study him for a moment, then make a decision.
In the back room, I pull out ingredients I've been saving for a special recipe—cardamom, cinnamon, a touch of saffron, and my secret weapon, a dark chocolate infused with chili. The preparation takes precision and patience, the aroma rich and complex as it comes together.
When I return, Max stares out the window at the intensifying storm, shoulders tight with whatever weight he's carrying.
"Try this." I place a tall glass mug before him, filled with a creation that looks nothing like his usual order.
"What is it?" He turns, eyebrow raised.
"Off-menu special. The Cognitive Reboot."