Chapter 21
"Are you sure you don't mind the gossip?" I ask as we walk to the shop, hands linked between us. "Small towns have big mouths."
"I've dealt with worse than nosy neighbors." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Though I did get thoroughly interrogated by Ruth at The PickAxe yesterday while picking up that bottle of wine."
"Ruth considers herself Angel's Peak's unofficial relationship counselor." I laugh, remembering her similar inquisition when Noah and Riley first reconnected. "Did she give you the 'intentions' talk?"
"Complete with thinly veiled threats about what happens to men who break hearts in her town." Max's smile is warm with amusement. "I think she was cleaning a shotgun behind the bar for dramatic effect."
"That's just for show. Her preferred weapon is social ostracism."
"Noted. I'll be on my best behavior."
"But Ruth is nothing compared to Eleanor." I pity any man who goes against Eleanor’s meddling. They’re doomed to lose, although Eleanor seems to have left Max alone. Almost as if she’s ceded her elder duties to Ruth.
We separate at the shop door with a quick kiss that still sends butterflies through my stomach. Max heads to his usual corner while I begin opening procedures, both of us falling into comfortable patterns that somehow accommodate the other's presence.
By mid-morning, Max ventures out on errands, promising to return for the afternoon.
The shop hums with steady business—a promising uptick since launching the online presence Max helped create.
Three mail orders for my signature beans came in overnight, a small but significant expansion beyond local customers.
Max returns mid-afternoon, settling into his usual routine with a quick kiss over the counter that draws knowing smiles from the customers.
By closing time, contentment has replaced my earlier unease. Max helps me shut down the shop, working alongside me, which makes the tasks go faster.
"We could stop by Margie's for pastries on the way home."
Home. The casual way he refers to my cottage creates a flutter in my chest. "Sounds perfect."
The evening air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke as we walk hand in hand down Main Street. The town is winding down for the night—Sheriff Donovan's cruiser passes with a friendly wave, the PickAxe's windows glow with warm light, and Margie's Bakery is just about to close.
Max holds the door for me, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back as we enter. The touch is casual yet deliberate, a subtle reminder of his constant awareness of my body, which sends a thrill down my spine.
"Lily! Max! I was just about to lock up." Margie's flour-dusted hands gesture to the nearly empty display case. "Not much left, I'm afraid."
"Whatever you have is fine," I say, unable to keep the impatience from my voice. The weight of Max's hand on my back, the memory of last night's explorations, and the promise of what's to come tonight have me unusually distracted.
Max seems to sense my restlessness. His thumb traces small circles against my lower back, the innocent gesture somehow intimate enough to make my breath catch.
"The almond croissants look wonderful," he says to Margie while his touch continues its maddening pattern.
"Fresh this afternoon." Margie begins boxing up the pastries, oblivious to the tension building between us. "Will these be for your breakfast tomorrow?"
"Yes," Max answers before I can speak. His voice drops slightly as he adds, "We have other plans for tonight."
The double meaning isn't lost on me. Heat rises to my cheeks as I fumble with my wallet, but Max is already handing Margie payment.
"You two enjoy your evening," Margie says with a knowing smile that makes me wonder how transparent our anticipation is.
Outside, the streetlights have come on, casting pools of golden light along our path. Max carries the pastry box in one hand, the other firmly entwined with mine. Our pace quickens by mutual, unspoken agreement.
"Eager to get home?" Max asks, his voice teasing but rough with desire.
"Just cold," I lie, though the flush on my skin has nothing to do with the temperature.
His low chuckle tells me he sees right through me. "Is that so? Because I could have sworn you've been watching the clock since we left the shop."
I've been caught. "Maybe I'm just curious about what you have planned."
"Curious?" He stops abruptly under a streetlight, turning me to face him. His eyes are dark with intent as they search mine. "Or impatient?"
"Both," I admit, past pretending. Our escalating intimacy has stripped away my defenses, leaving me raw and honest in ways I never expected.
His smile is slow and predatory. "Good. I like knowing you want this as much as I do."
We resume walking, but at a faster pace. My cottage comes into view, the teal door a welcome sight. My fingers tremble slightly as I fit the key into the lock, hyperaware of Max standing close behind me, his breath warm against my neck.
Once inside, he sets the pastry box on the kitchen counter before turning to me. The intensity in his gaze makes my knees weak.
"Hang up your coat," he says, his voice quiet but commanding. "Then come here."
The directive sends a shiver down my spine. I respond to this aspect of him—the controlled authority, the quiet confidence that expects obedience. I shrug out of my coat, hanging it on the hook by the door, my movements deliberately slow as his eyes track me.
"Now what?" I ask, though we both know I'm not really asking for instructions. I'm inviting him to take control, to guide me through whatever new territory he plans to explore tonight.
His phone chimes with an incoming email, breaking the moment. He glances down. His brow furrows. Only gradually, do I become aware of his prolonged silence.
When I look up, his expression has darkened, jaw tight as he stares at his screen.
"Everything okay?"
"Not exactly." He turns the phone toward me, revealing the headline: "Tech Genius Max Lawson's Secret Mountain Hideaway—Exclusive Photos Reveal Romantic Getaway with Mystery Woman."
My stomach drops as I scan the article. There are photos of us walking together in town, entering my cottage, and even one through my kitchen window of Max cooking breakfast. The invasion of privacy is shocking enough, but it's the final paragraphs that make my blood run cold:
"Sources close to the tech mogul suggest this mountain romance might be more than a casual fling.
The mystery woman, identified as local coffee shop owner Lily Brock, appears to have her own tech background.
Insiders are now questioning if there's a connection to Lawson's latest security project and Brock's controversial exit from BrewTech following allegations of corporate espionage. .."
The room spins slightly as I hand the phone back to him. Two years of carefully constructed anonymity, destroyed in one tabloid article.