Chapter 16 #2
I stiffen, memories of BrewTech surging unwelcome. "What does that have to do with me?"
"I need to test it with actual products. Coffee seems ideal—complex flavor profiles, visual distinctions, quality variations." His eyes meet mine, unexpectedly earnest. "Would you let me photograph and catalog some of your offerings? The data stays local, completely secure."
The irony doesn't escape me—asked to test technology for the very industry that burned me. Yet Max's expression holds none of Eric's calculated charm, only genuine excitement about his creation.
"Why me?" The question comes out softer than intended.
"Because you understand both the technical and artistic aspects of coffee craft. You'll see flaws and possibilities I might miss." He leans slightly closer. "And because I trust your judgment."
Those simple words—"I trust your judgment"—strike a chord Eric never touched. My expertise had always been a tool for him, never something valued for its own sake.
"What would it involve exactly?"
Max's smile warms his entire face. "Basically, an afternoon playing with coffee and technology. Taking photos of different preparations, logging tasting notes, testing how the app catalogs and connects flavor profiles."
"Like a digital sommelier for coffee?"
"Exactly. Only with higher security protocols than the Pentagon."
The tech side of me—the part I've kept buried since BrewTech—stirs with interest. "I suppose I could spare a few hours. For research purposes."
"Of course. Strictly professional." The twinkle in his eyes suggests otherwise.
We spend the afternoon in a rhythm that feels surprisingly natural.
Max photographs each coffee preparation from multiple angles while I describe the origins of the beans, the roasting process, and the optimal brewing methods.
His app catalogues everything, creating interconnected webs of flavor profiles and preparation techniques.
Between regular customers, we huddle over the tablet, Max's shoulder warm against mine as we analyze the results.
His enthusiasm is contagious, his expertise impressive.
He explains the programming in terms I understand, without condescension, and occasionally asks questions that reveal he remembers my technical background.
"The visual recognition needs refinement." He frowns at the screen where the app has misidentified a pour-over as a Chemex brew. "It's struggling with similar preparation methods."
"The distinction is in the filter shape and extraction time." I reach across him to adjust the image, our fingers brushing. "If you added a time-lapse feature for the brewing process, the algorithm could better distinguish methods."
He looks at me with new appreciation. "That's brilliant. Simple but effective."
"Just because I left the tech world doesn't mean I stopped understanding it."
"Clearly." His gaze lingers on my face. "You could have founded your own tech company, you know. Your insight is exceptional."
The compliment lands differently than expected—not as a painful reminder of what might have been, but an acknowledgment of capabilities I still possess.
"I prefer being hands-on with my coffee." I gesture around the shop. "No board meetings or venture capitalists to please." No knives in my back.
"Fair point." He leans back, stretching slightly. "Though, for what it's worth, I think the tech world lost something significant when you left."
Before I can respond, the bell chimes. Hannah Lewis strides in, auburn hair gleaming against her emerald sweater, arms full of library books.
"Lily! Just the caffeine sorceress I needed." Her smile falters slightly when she spots Max. "Oh, hello there, handsome."
"Hannah." I move toward the counter. "Your usual?"
"Please." Her gaze lingers on Max with unmistakable interest. "Triple shot mocha might be the only thing that'll get me through cataloging these local history books." She sets her stack down with a theatrical sigh.
Max offers her a polite nod, stepping aside to let her approach the counter.
Hannah leans in conspiratorially as I start her drink.
"So," she says, voice pitched just loud enough for Max to hear, "the whole town's talking about how you two were trapped here during the blizzard.
" Her eyes dance with mischief. "Sheriff Donovan mentioned checking in on you.
Said it was quite the coincidence that Max happened to be here when the roads closed. "
Heat crawls up my neck. "The sheriff needs to focus on actual emergencies."
"Oh, he did." Hannah's smile widens. "But you know how news travels in Angel's Peak. Especially when it involves our mysterious newcomer and our favorite coffee shop owner."
Max chuckles behind her. "Small towns."
"The smallest," Hannah agrees cheerfully. "Thirty minutes after that storm hit, everyone knew exactly who was trapped where." She turns to face him fully. "And being stuck with Lily? You lucked out. She's the best company in town."
"I couldn't agree more." The warmth in his voice makes my hands fumble the milk pitcher.
Hannah's gaze bounces between us, clearly delighted by my discomfort. "You know," she says, tapping her manicured nails against the counter, "in all the years I've known Lily, I've never seen her blush quite this shade of crimson."
"Hannah," I warn, sliding her drink across the counter.
"What?" She blinks innocently. "I'm just making conversation with your... unexpected overnight companion."
Max's smile grows, a glint of something possessive flickering in his eyes. "I was more of a stranded traveler," he says smoothly, "though I can't say I minded the company."
The look he gives me sends my pulse racing again. Hannah catches it and practically vibrates with glee.
"Well!" She collects her books and her drink with surprising grace. "I should get back to the library before Meredith sends out a search party." She pauses at the door, unable to resist one final comment. "You two have quite the chemistry. Very... electric."
And with that, she's gone in a flurry of books, copper hair, and knowing smiles, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.
I busy myself wiping down the espresso machine, painfully aware of Max watching me. When I finally look up, he's leaning against the counter, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Electric," he repeats thoughtfully. "Accurate assessment."
"Hannah has an overactive imagination." I fold the cloth with more precision than necessary.
"Does she?" He steps closer, voice dropping to that low register that seems to vibrate through my bones. "Because I remember very real electricity between us last night."
The memory of his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, floods back with vivid clarity. "Max—"
"Have dinner with me tonight." His tone is soft but intent, eyes holding mine with quiet certainty. "Not here. Somewhere we can talk without the whole town providing commentary."
"Dinner?" The invitation catches me off guard. "I don't know if that's a good idea." Even as I say it, I know I'm going to say yes.
"Yes, that evening meal people often share." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "At Timberline, in The Haven. I've heard it's the best restaurant in town."
"It's the only actual restaurant in town."
"Then my research is accurate." He leans against the counter, close enough that I catch the citrus notes of his cologne.
"Say yes." It's not a question but a command, echoing the same authority that had sent shivers down my spine last night.
"After all the coffee sampling, we should try something different. Let me take you on a proper date."
A proper date. The words hang between us, transforming what happened on the couch from an isolated incident into something with potential—something real.
Somehow, the idea of sitting across from him at a candlelit table, fully clothed and in public, seems more intimate than the heat of his body pressed against mine during the blizzard.
"I don't think—" I begin, but he reaches across the counter, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The casual touch sends sparks racing across my skin.
"Seven o'clock," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "I'll pick you up here."
A dozen reasons to refuse line up in my mind—most prominently Mabel's warning about tourist romances. But his eyes hold mine, steady and certain. I’m nodding before I can stop myself.
His smile could power the entire town through another blackout.
"This isn't a date," I clarify, needing the boundary for my own sanity.
He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a register that only I can hear.
"Lily Brock, this is most definitely a date," he counters, my full name on his lips, sending an unexpected thrill through me.
"With hand-holding, dinner conversation, and kissing.
" His eyes drop to my mouth for a brief, scorching moment.
"And whatever else you're comfortable with. "
The promise in his voice makes my skin flush hot, memories of his whispered intentions from last night flooding back. The café suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.
"Though perhaps wear that blue sweater you had on last Tuesday." His voice drops even lower, almost a caress. "It matches your eyes."
He noticed what I was wearing last Tuesday?
"I'll wear whatever's clean," I respond, fighting a smile despite the heat coiling in my stomach. "Now, don't you have work to do? That corner booth doesn't rent itself."
He returns to his station with poorly concealed satisfaction, and I turn away to hide my flustered pleasure, pressing my cool palms against my burning cheeks.
Definitely a date, his words echo in my mind. Definitely a date.
My body hums with anticipation at the thought of his hands on me again—this time without the restraint of "just sleeping."