Chapter 16
Morning arrives with blinding brightness, sunlight reflecting off fresh snow through the small window. I wake slowly, comfortably warm despite the shop's chill.
Too comfortable.
Awareness dawns as I register the weight of an arm draped across my waist, solid warmth pressed against my back. Somehow during the night, our careful arrangement dissolved, and we've ended up fitted together like nested spoons, Max's body curled protectively around mine.
His breathing remains deep and even against my neck, still asleep. I should move, establish proper distance, but my body betrays me, melting into the comfort of his embrace.
This is dangerous—far more dangerous than a heated kiss. This quiet intimacy, this sense of security in his arms, threatens the walls I've carefully constructed.
As if sensing my thoughts, Max stirs, his arm tightening briefly around me before awareness hits him too. His body tenses slightly.
"Sorry," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "I apparently migrate in my sleep."
"It's fine." I carefully extricate myself, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled hair. "At least we didn't freeze."
He laughs softly, stretching as he sits. Morning light catches in his hair, turning the dark strands nearly blue-black. He should look rumpled and ordinary after sleeping in his clothes, but somehow he manages to look unfairly attractive, with stubble shadowing his jaw and sleep-softened eyes.
"How bad is it out there?" He nods toward the window.
I stand on tiptoe to peer outside. "Clear skies. Lots of snow, but the plows are already working on Main Street."
"Back to reality, then."
"Apparently so." The awkwardness between us feels both teenage and profound.
My phone buzzes—a text from Sheriff Donovan confirming the roads to The Haven are now passable. I relay this to Max, relief and disappointment warring within me.
We moved through the morning routine, restoring the office to its original state and checking the shop for any storm damage. The generator performed perfectly, and Mountain Brew weathered the blizzard unscathed.
"I should get back." Max lingers by the front door. "Change clothes, check in with the office."
"Of course."
"Thank you for the hospitality." His tone is too formal, creating artificial distance from the intimacy we shared.
"Anytime. Well, not anytime. Preferably not during another blizzard."
His smile returns, genuine and warm. "I'll see you later?"
The question carries more weight than its simple words suggest.
"The shop's closed today for storm recovery. But tomorrow... your booth will be waiting."
Something shifts in his expression—pleasure mixed with an emotion I can't quite identify. "Tomorrow, then."
After he leaves, I lock the door behind him and lean against it, exhaling slowly. The shop feels emptier than usual, or perhaps I'm simply more aware of his absence after hours of his company.
I gather my belongings, eager for the comfort of my cottage, a hot shower, and clean clothes. The walk home takes twice as long as usual, navigating through snow piled shoulder-high along the plowed walkways.
My cottage welcomes me with familiar simplicity—colorful pillows on the secondhand sofa, mismatched coffee mugs hanging from hooks in the tiny kitchen, and the patchwork quilt Eleanor made me draped across my bed.
It should feel like a sanctuary.
Instead, it feels strangely hollow, as if something is missing that wasn't missing before.
In the shower, hot water beats against tense muscles, but does nothing to wash away the memory of Max's arms around me. The phantom warmth of his body lingers like a ghost against my skin.
Three weeks. That's all he has in Angel's Peak. I can handle three weeks of attraction without losing my heart—can't I?
The phantom warmth of his body still pressed against mine, however, suggests otherwise.
I spend the remainder of the day in a haze, going through the motions of normalcy. Laundry. A half-hearted attempt at reading. Preparing recipes for tomorrow's pastry case. But underneath it all runs a current of anticipation, a countdown to seeing him again.
Morning comes both too quickly and not soon enough.
I arrive before dawn, the familiar ritual of opening—grinding beans, wiping counters, warming ovens—a comforting anchor in my sea of uncertainty.
By the time the first customers arrive, the café smells of cinnamon and coffee, and I've almost convinced myself I can face Max with professional detachment.
Outside, the world is transformed—tree branches heavy with snow, the street a pristine white canvas broken only by a few early footprints.
"You're brewing the dark roast too hot again." Mabel's voice breaks through my distracted haze as she slides onto her usual stool at the counter. "Two degrees cooler would bring out the caramel notes."
"Good morning, Mabel." I adjust the temperature setting on the machine, knowing she's right. At seventy-eight, she doesn't miss a thing, especially when it comes to coffee. Her guesthouse has hosted visitors to Angel’s Peak for nearly forty years, and her palate remains unmatched.
"Your mind's elsewhere this morning." Mabel's shrewd eyes narrow as I prepare her usual medium roast, a splash of cream, served in the yellow mug with painted daisies. "Heard you had company during the storm."
News travels at supersonic speed in Angel's Peak. "Max Lawson was here when the roads closed. We had to make do."
"Make do." Mabel's silvery eyebrows rise with enough skepticism to fill the Grand Canyon. "That's what the kids call it these days?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Nothing happened."
"Your face says otherwise."
I busy myself with wiping down the already-clean counter. "We talked. Slept on opposite ends of the couch. That's it." It’s the tiniest of tiny white lies, but I don’t need all of Angel’s Peak knowing every detail.
"Mmhmm." Mabel sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. "And now?"
"And now nothing. He's a customer."
"A customer who looks at you like you're the secret ingredient in his favorite dish." Mabel sets her mug down with a decisive click. "I've seen that boy every morning at The Haven's breakfast, checking his watch every thirty seconds until it's time to come here."
My traitor heart stutters. "He's just eager to work. The coffee shop is quieter than the resort."
"Lily Brock, you can lie to yourself all you want, but don't waste your breath trying to fool me." Mabel's voice softens. "Just be careful, sweet pea. Tourist romances burn hot and fast. Unfortunately, they often leave nothing but ashes when they end."
"It's not a romance."
"If you say so." Mabel pats my hand, her palm warm and paper-dry against mine. "Just remember—three types come to Angel's Peak: those passing through, those hiding out, and those who've found home. Make sure you know which one he is before you give away pieces of yourself that you can't get back."
Her words stay with me long after she leaves, echoing as I move through the morning routine. Max hasn't arrived yet, his corner booth conspicuously empty. The absence shouldn't matter—shouldn't create this hollow feeling in my chest—yet I find myself glancing at the door each time the bell chimes.
By eleven, I've convinced myself he's not coming. Perhaps the night in the coffee shop clarified things for him—showed him the attraction was merely proximity and circumstance, nothing worth pursuing. Or worse, maybe our conversation about BrewTech gave him second thoughts.
Corporate spy.
The label might have finally registered, overriding whatever chemistry flared between us.
I wipe down the already spotless counter, reorganize the pastry case that doesn't need reorganizing, and check my phone three times to confirm it's working.
The memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine, refuses to fade.
I can still feel the gentle scrape of his stubble against my neck, still hear the low rumble of his laughter at his own terrible puns.
Pathetic. One kiss—well, several kisses—and I'm acting like a lovesick teenager.
Mabel catches me staring at the door for the fifth time in as many minutes. "Waiting for someone?" Her knowing smile makes me flush.
"Just watching the snow." The lie falls flat even to my own ears.
"Mmhmm." She turns back to her drink, but not before I catch her smirk. "The snow that's been falling continuously for three days. Must be fascinating."
I ignore her, focusing instead on the intricate latte art I'm creating—anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off Max. The foam swirls into delicate patterns beneath my practiced touch, a temporary masterpiece soon to be consumed and forgotten. Like whatever this thing with Max might become.
Would it be so bad?
I wish I had an answer for that.
Mabel's warning plays on repeat: Tourist romances burn hot and fast. Unfortunately, they often leave nothing but ashes when they end.
The bell chimes, and there he stands, windblown and winter-bright.
My heart performs an embarrassing acrobatic routine.
Snowflakes cling to his dark hair and the shoulders of his charcoal peacoat, melting rapidly in the shop's warmth.
His cheeks are flushed from the cold; his eyes are bright and seek mine immediately.
The intensity in his gaze knocks the air from my lungs.
"Sorry, I'm late." He approaches the counter with purpose, no sign of awkwardness after our night together. "Had a video conference that wouldn't end."
"Your usual?" I reach for a mug, hoping my hands appear steadier than they feel.
"Actually..." He hesitates, then places his tablet on the counter. "I need your help with something."
"My help?" Suspicion flickers. "With what?"
"Part of our update includes a visual recognition component for small food businesses." He activates the tablet, revealing what appears to be a prototype app. "It helps catalog inventory, suggest pairings, and creates customized recommendations based on customer preferences."