Chapter 18
The next few days melt away like snow in spring sunshine.
The routines Max and I have established feel both new and oddly familiar—his morning arrival with that half-smile that's just for me, afternoons of work punctuated by stolen glances across the shop, occasional evenings that stretch later than either of us intend.
We've settled into a rhythm that's becoming dangerously… comfortable.
One thing that’s new and exciting is that morning brings a parade of Angel's Peak business owners, all eager for their slice of Max's expertise.
Hunter Morgan from Timberline Restaurant arrives first, tablet in hand, gesturing animatedly about inventory categories for his kitchen supplies.
Before he's even finished, Mabel Wilson from the guesthouse slips into the opposite chair at Max's booth, spreadsheets and projections at the ready.
The seamless flow of entrepreneurs continues all day—Lucas Reid discussing operations at The Haven Resort, Dominic Mercer from Silverleaf Vineyards showcasing his implementation of Max's tracking system, and even Sheriff Donovan stopping by to see if this app he’s heard about might help manage equipment at the station.
Each visitor orbits around Max's booth like planets around a sun, drawn by his gravity, his expertise.
I watch from behind the counter, struck by how he gives each person his complete focus, how his fingers occasionally brush their hands while pointing at screens, how his laughter fills the shop when someone makes a joke.
Yet somehow, no matter how engaged he seems, his eyes always find mine across the room at precisely the moment I'm looking at him, as though some invisible tether connects us.
The parade of beta testers only makes his professional appeal more potent. Watching him solve problems with the same focus and command he showed when his hands were on my body during the blizzard makes my skin warm with inappropriate thoughts.
Authority suits him, whether it's in coding or... other arenas.
Authority. Command. Purpose.
What have I opened myself up to?
An envelope sits unopened on my counter all morning, the return address—Kirkland Properties—promising nothing good. I finally tear it open during a quiet moment between customers, stomach sinking as I read the contents.
There will be a thirty percent rent increase when my lease renews next month.
Thirty percent.
I do the mental calculations three times, hoping the numbers will somehow rearrange themselves into something manageable. They don't. Between the shop's financial struggles and this new blow, my life in Angel's Peak suddenly feels built on shifting sand.
The rest of the day passes in a fog of worry. I serve customers on autopilot, smile without feeling it, move through familiar motions while my mind races through increasingly desperate scenarios. Even Max's presence in his usual corner booth fails to lift my spirits.
By closing time, I've worked myself into a complete spiral of anxiety. As the last customer leaves, I flip the sign to CLOSED and rest my forehead against the cool glass, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
"Lily?"
I startle slightly, having forgotten Max was still here.
"Sorry." I straighten, attempting normalcy. "Lost in thought."
"Troubling thoughts, from the look of it." He stands, concern evident in his expression, but there's something else too—a watchfulness, as if he's cataloging my reactions. He moves toward me with deliberate steps. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing major." The lie tastes bitter. "Just business stuff."
He studies me with those perceptive blue eyes that seem to see right through my defenses. His gaze holds me in place, commanding without words.
"I don't believe you."
Something about his quiet authority breaks through my resolve. I retrieve the letter from beneath the counter, wordlessly handing it to him.
"Thirty percent?" His expression darkens as he reads. "That's highway robbery."
"That's real estate in a growing tourist town." I take the letter back, folding it with precise movements. "People are discovering Angel's Peak. Demand increases, prices follow."
"What will you do?"
The simple question unravels me further. "I don't know. Business is already tight. The shop barely breaks even in the off-season, and now my rental costs..." I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. "I'll figure something out. I always do."
Max is quiet for a moment, thinking. He moves closer, his hand reaching out to tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. The gesture is gentle but brooks no resistance. "What if we increased your business revenue? Not just incrementally, but substantially?"
"By magic?" A hollow laugh escapes me. "I've tried everything. Loyalty programs, specialty items, and extended hours during peak seasons. There's only so much coffee one small town can drink."
"But it's not just about the town anymore." His fingers linger on my skin, a point of warmth that anchors me to the present. "It's about reach. Digital presence. Alternative revenue streams. What about a tech center?"
I recognize the look in his eyes—the same intensity he gets when solving coding problems. "What are you thinking?"
"Let me show you."
For the next three hours, we huddle over his laptop at the counter, exploring possibilities I previously dismissed as beyond my capabilities as a solo proprietor.
Not to mention the costs.
Max, however, guides me through creating a simple but effective website with online ordering functionality, setting up shipping logistics for my signature coffee beans, and developing subscription options for recurring customers.
I've considered everything he says, but something held me back. It's fear, but there's more to it. I hate to say this, but it’s as if I believe I'm doomed to fail, and because of that, I'm afraid to try.
Eric destroyed many things when he trashed my career. My belief in myself is merely a tiny fragment of what he destroyed.
"The key is maintaining your brand identity while expanding your reach." Max's fingers fly across the keyboard, building a digital version of Mountain Brew that somehow captures the essence of the shop. "What if we combine it with a coworking space?"
I lean closer to see the screen, catching the scent of his cologne.
"A coworking space?" I repeat, considering the concept.
"Remote work is booming, even in small towns like Angel's Peak.
People need somewhere besides their kitchen table to work, but many can't afford dedicated office space.
" His eyes remain on the screen as mockups take shape—my familiar coffee shop transformed with designated workstations, small meeting areas, and comfortable lounges.
"You already have the Wi-Fi, the coffee, and the atmosphere.
Add power outlets at each table, maybe a few privacy booths, a small conference room in that storage space you never use.
.." His enthusiasm is contagious. "Monthly memberships for regular users, day passes for tourists or occasional visitors.
You'd essentially double your revenue streams without doubling your overhead. "
The possibilities unfold before me—Mountain Brew evolving beyond just a coffee shop into a community hub, a place where local entrepreneurs and remote workers could thrive.
"You'd be offering something this town doesn't have," Max continues, "while still keeping everything that makes your café special. The perfect blend of your coffee expertise and practical business needs."
Every time he pauses to ask my opinion, he shifts slightly closer, his shoulder pressing against mine, his hand occasionally covering mine to guide my movements on the trackpad. Each touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, sending ripples of awareness through my body.
"Your story is what sets you apart. The artisan attention to detail, the unique blends, the mountain location—these are marketable differentiators in the specialty coffee market."
His enthusiasm is contagious, slowly displacing my earlier despair. As the site takes shape, incorporating my existing logo and the copper-and-wood aesthetic of the physical shop, I feel something new unfurling—possibility.
"This could work," I murmur, watching as he integrates a secure payment system.
"It will work." His confidence leaves no room for doubt. When he reaches across me to type something, his breath brushes my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.
He notices.
His eyes darken momentarily before returning to the screen. "Here, try the user experience yourself."
I navigate through the site he's created, marveling at its intuitive design and authentic representation of my business. When I complete a test purchase of my signature cinnamon bean blend, the confirmation page includes options for brewing recommendations and complementary flavor pairings.
"That personal touch will drive customer loyalty and word-of-mouth marketing.
" Max's smile is triumphant as he leans in to observe my reaction, his chest pressing against my back, one hand resting possessively on my hip.
The casual ownership in the gesture makes my breath catch.
"No mass-market coffee company offers that level of customization. "
"This is..." I struggle to find adequate words, distracted by his proximity. "Max, this is incredible."
"It's just the beginning." He turns me to face him fully, hands gripping my waist with gentle authority. "With targeted social media and strategic partnerships with local businesses for cross-promotion, you could double your current revenue within six months."
The technical side of me—the part I've kept suppressed since BrewTech—springs fully to life, engaging with his ideas and offering refinements. We lose track of time, deep in creative collaboration that feels both professionally stimulating and undeniably intimate. Each time our ideas align, his expression warms. It’s the kind of approval that makes me inexplicably eager to please him.