Chapter 17
Timberline glows with understated elegance as we enter.
Soft lighting from iron chandeliers, white tablecloths, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the snow-covered mountains.
Despite my protests, I'm wearing the blue sweater, paired with my only decent black pants and boots that haven't seen use since I left San Francisco.
"Mr. Lawson, Ms. Brock." The host greets us with elegance and hospitality. "Your table is ready."
We're led to a corner table beside the windows—the best in the house, with views of moonlight on fresh snow. A single candle flickers between place settings, creating the unmistakable atmosphere of a romantic dinner.
Not a date, I remind myself, even as Max holds my chair, but my body remembers his promises from the night of the blizzard, the controlled hunger in his touch, the darkness he admitted to craving.
"This is lovely." I unfold the heavy linen napkin, suddenly aware of how special this evening feels compared to my usual routine. "I haven't been here since they renovated last year."
"First time for me." Max surveys the space appreciatively. "Lucas Reid clearly has an eye for design."
"Chef Morgan's food is the real star. His farm-to-table approach transformed the local culinary scene."
Conversation flows easily as we order—a shared charcuterie board featuring local ingredients, followed by rosemary lamb for Max and cedar-plank salmon for me. The wine—a rich red from Silverleaf Vineyards—complements both perfectly.
Between courses, Max tells me about his childhood in Detroit—son of an auto factory worker and a nurse, scholarship student who coded his first program at thirteen on a computer rescued from a dumpster.
His path to tech success wasn't privileged or connected; it was built through innate talent and relentless work.
"My father thought I was wasting my time." He swirls wine in his glass, expression distant. "He wanted me to get a 'real job' at the plant. Couldn't understand why I'd spend hours debugging code instead of working on cars."
"Did he ever come around?"
"Eventually. When I sold my first app and paid off their mortgage." A smile touches his lips. "Though he still introduces me as 'my son who does something with computers.'"
I laugh, warmed by the glimpse of his roots. "My parents were the opposite. Both professors who expected me to pursue academia. Opening a coffee shop was my rebellion."
"And the tech career in between?"
"A detour that proved them right, then wrong, then right again." I take a sip of wine. "Though after the BrewTech disaster, I'm sure they'd agree I made the right choice leaving tech behind."
He nods, his expression thoughtful. "Even with your talent for algorithms? The work you showed me when we were testing my app was impressive."
"Even with that," I say firmly, though his acknowledgment of my skills warms me in a way I don’t expect. Unlike Eric, who always took credit for my innovations, Max seems to genuinely value my expertise.
"Well. Angel's Peak's newest power couple." We look up to find Dominic Mercer—tall, ruggedly handsome in that specific way of men who work outdoors—standing beside our table. Beside him, Elena Santiago—elegant in a simple black dress—observes us with knowing eyes.
"Dominic." I recover first. "Elena. Lovely to see you both."
"We didn't mean to interrupt your evening." Elena's smile is warm but perceptive. "Just wanted to say hello. Max, how are you enjoying Angel's Peak?"
"More than expected." His gaze flickers briefly at me. "The local specialties have exceeded all expectations."
Dominic's laugh is knowing. "They have a way of doing that. Wait until you taste Hunter's chocolate soufflé. Life-changing."
Dominic extends his hand to Max. "How's the app testing coming along? Elena's been tracking our inventory with it all week."
I blink in surprise, looking between them. "You two know each other?"
"Max approached us about a week ago about beta testing his inventory app at the vineyard," Dominic explains. "Perfect timing since we needed a better system for tracking vintages and yields."
Max smiles, almost apologetically. "I've been working with several local businesses. Silverleaf Vineyards, The Haven, The PickAxe..."
"And me," I realize aloud, thinking of our afternoon spent photographing and cataloging coffee beans. "I didn't know there were other beta testers."
"Small businesses with complex and diverse inventory needs," Max explains. "Angel's Peak has been the perfect testing ground."
"Keeping you quite busy, I imagine," Elena observes with a knowing smile.
"Some beta testers more than others," Max replies, his eyes meeting mine briefly.
Brief introductions transition to the discovery that Elena—now partnered with Dominic at Silverleaf Vineyards—was once one of San Francisco's top sommeliers. The conversation turns to mutual acquaintances and favorite Bay Area haunts until they tactfully excuse themselves.
"They seem nice," Max observes after they've gone. His fingers find mine under the table, intertwining with casual intimacy. "You realize by tomorrow morning, the entire town will know we're officially dating." A smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
The thought of becoming town gossip should alarm me more than it does. Instead, I find myself surprisingly unconcerned.
The intensity in his blue eyes reminds me of that night during the blizzard—his confession about control, about desires that would leave marks, about appetites darker than I'd known.
"I'm a patient man, Lily," he told me then, his voice a rough caress.
"Especially when it comes to something I want.
" The memory sends heat coursing through me, despite my better judgment.
His understanding only makes the situation more dangerous. It would be much easier if he pushed, demanded, and acted as if he were entitled to more than I'm ready to give. Instead, his patience and respect dismantle my defenses more effectively than any persistence could.
Eric did that often enough—demanded, pressured, made me feel that my reluctance was unreasonable. He never had Max's restraint, never understood that patience could be more seductive than force. The contrast between them only makes Max more devastating to my resolve.
I want to give him everything he desires, but knowing there’s no future complicates things. Part of me says, take the plunge already. Enjoy life. Live dangerously. The other part of me still aches after the disaster that was Eric Denton. I’m more careful now. Hesitant. Guarded even. Which I hate.
The rest of dinner passes in a pleasant blur of excellent food and increasingly personal conversation. By the time we step outside into the crisp night air, stars blazing overhead in the clear post-storm sky, something fundamental has shifted between us.
"Mind if we walk?" Max asks, breath forming clouds in the cold. "Too beautiful a night to rush back."
The path from The Haven to downtown is well-lit and recently plowed. We move side by side, close but not touching, until Max offers his arm at a particularly icy patch.
"For safety," he clarifies, eyes twinkling.
"Of course. Safety." I slip my hand through his arm, the contact sending warmth through me despite the cold.
Neither of us is willing to break the spell by mentioning the obvious—that I don't need his support to navigate familiar paths, that our linked arms have nothing to do with ice and everything to do with wanting connection.
Halfway down the path, my cottage comes into view—a tiny converted carriage house with the vibrant teal door I painted myself and windows glowing with the timer lights I set before leaving.
"That's your place?" Max asks, slowing our pace.
"Home sweet home. All nine hundred square feet of it."
"It suits you." There's no condescension in his tone, only appreciation. "Distinctive. Unapologetically individual."
We continue past without stopping, both aware that crossing that threshold would change everything. Instead, we walk to Mountain Brew, our breath synchronizing in the quiet night.
"Coffee?" I offer as I unlock the door. "I've been experimenting with a new nighttime blend."
"I'd love to try it."
The darkened shop feels intimate as I move through familiar motions—grinding beans, heating water, and preparing two mugs with a technique that falls somewhere between pour-over and French press.
"My own invention." I hand him a steaming mug. "Designed specifically for evening consumption. Lower acidity, subtle chocolate notes, a hint of cardamom."
Max tastes it thoughtfully. "It's remarkable. Complex but soothing."
"The cardamom is the secret." I lean against the counter. "Most people use cinnamon for sweetness, but cardamom adds dimension without the sugar rush."
He moves closer, setting his mug aside. "You are a sorceress."
"Just experienced."
"More than experienced." Another step closes the distance between us. "Brilliant. Innovative. Extraordinary."
Each word diminishes the space between us until we're breathing the same air, the coffee forgotten.
"Max..." The word emerges as barely more than a whisper.
His hand rises to cup my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip. The touch is gentle, but his eyes are anything but—dark with hunger barely leashed, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of blue remains. Tension radiates from him, taut as a wire about to snap.
"Tell me to stop, and I will." His voice is rough, strained with the effort of control. The power in that restraint is intoxicating—knowing what he wants, what he could take, yet holding back for my permission.
His thumb continues its path across my lip, applying just enough pressure to part them slightly. My pulse hammers at my throat, drums in my ears, throbs between my thighs.