Chapter 23
Sleep eludes me, my bed too empty, too cold without Max's presence. The argument replays on an endless loop, his words cutting deeper with each mental repetition. By morning, exhaustion settles into my bones, making even routine tasks feel monumental.
Mountain Brew opens on schedule despite my leaden limbs and hollow chest. The morning rush—blessedly busy with the weekend crowd—provides a distraction from the ache of Max's absence.
With each chime of the bell, my heart performs a traitorous leap of hope, only to crash when the entering customer isn't him.
It's my fault. I asked for space when I should've let him hold me, but my battles aren't his to fight.
The bell chimes again, and Ruth Fletcher strides in, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in its practical ponytail, expression uncharacteristically somber.
"Morning, Lily," she says, approaching the counter with deliberate casualness.
"Ruth." I manage a smile that feels brittle. "The usual?"
"Please." She settles onto a stool, watching me work. "Quiet morning?"
"Busy, actually." I focus on the familiar routine of preparing her double espresso. "Just a lull now."
Ruth accepts her drink, then sets it down without tasting it. "So. I saw the article."
My hands freeze on the espresso machine. Here it comes—the questions, the doubt, the subtle withdrawal that inevitably follows when people learn about my past.
"Terrible invasion of privacy," Ruth continues, her voice hardening. "Taking photos through your window? Disgusting. I've already called the editor and gave them a piece of my mind about journalistic ethics."
I blink, thrown by her response. "You... called the editor?"
"Of course I did. What kind of friend would I be if I let that stand?" Ruth takes a sip of her espresso, eyes never leaving mine. "And for what it's worth, whatever happened at that tech company—BrewTech, was it?—doesn't change a damn thing about who you are in Angel's Peak."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "You don't think I'm a corporate spy?"
Ruth snorts, the sound so undignified it startles a laugh from me.
"Please. I've known you for two years, Lily.
You're the woman who stays late to help Margie repair her ancient refrigerator.
Who delivers coffee to Eleanor when her arthritis is acting up.
Who teaches those kids from the high school about running a business.
" She leans forward, expression fierce. "I don't need to know what happened in San Francisco. I know who you are here."
The unexpected acceptance leaves me momentarily speechless. "I... thank you."
"Nothing to thank me for." Ruth waves away my gratitude. "Though I will say, you could have told us. We're your community, Lily. That means something in Angel's Peak."
Before I can respond, the bell chimes again. Several customers enter at once—a family of tourists, Hannah from the library, and Sheriff Donovan.
Hannah catches my eye immediately, offering a warm smile as she approaches the counter. "Morning, Lily. Could I get a triple shot mocha?"
I prepare her drink, tension coiling in my stomach as I wait for her to mention the article. Instead, she chatters about the new books arriving at the library, asks about a coffee delivery for their upcoming book club, and departs with a friendly wave.
The pattern repeats throughout the morning.
Customers come and go—some locals, some visitors—and while I catch occasional curious glances, no one mentions BrewTech or corporate espionage.
Several regulars seem to make a point of being warmer than usual, leaving larger tips or lingering to chat about inconsequential town matters.
By mid-afternoon, the quiet acceptance has me more unsettled than outright confrontation would have. The bell chimes again, and Eleanor Morgan enters, silver braids crowned atop her head, keen eyes missing nothing as she surveys the shop.
"Your young man isn't here today." She settles onto a stool at the counter, observing rather than questioning.
"He's working from The Haven." I focus on preparing her usual, grateful for the familiar routine.
"Seems a shame, when he was so comfortable here." Eleanor accepts her mug with a thoughtful expression. "Especially with so little time remaining in his stay."
My hands falter slightly. "We had a disagreement."
"About that article, I presume." Eleanor's directness shouldn't surprise me after all this time, but it still catches me off guard.
I nod, unable to form words.
"Lily." Eleanor's weathered hand covers mine, stopping my nervous wiping of the already clean counter. "Did you think we'd believe some tabloid gossip over what we know of you?"
"I don't know what I thought," I admit. "I've spent two years hiding that part of my life. And now..."
"And now the sky hasn't fallen." Eleanor's eyes crinkle with gentle amusement. "Though I imagine it feels that way to you."
"Everyone's being so... normal."
"What did you expect? Pitchforks and torches?" She sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. "This morning at Margie's, we all agreed—whatever happened in your past is your business. Though I will say, if you'd trusted us sooner, you might have saved yourself a great deal of unnecessary worry."
"Ruth said something similar."
"Ruth Fletcher may be the most aggravating woman in three counties, but she's rarely wrong about people.
" Eleanor sets her cup down with a decisive click.
"You know, when my Charles died, I sealed off his study.
Kept it exactly as he left it for nearly two years.
Couldn't bear to disturb a single paper or book. "
The apparent non sequitur throws me. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I don't see—"
"Grief takes many forms, Lily." Her weathered hand covers mine briefly. "Some of us lose people. Some lose dreams, reputations, futures we thought were certain. The pain is different, but the protective instincts are the same."
Something loosens in my chest at the unexpected understanding.
"What changed? With the study?"
A smile touches her lips, gentle with memory.
"My granddaughter needed a quiet place to study.
I realized Charles would have hated knowing that room sat empty when it could be serving someone he loved.
" Her eyes hold mine steadily, wisdom accumulated over decades.
"Sometimes our protective barriers outlive their usefulness.
They harden from shelter to prison without us noticing the transformation. "
"I built a life here." The defense emerges softer than intended. "A good life."
"Yes, you did." Eleanor nods approvingly. "The question is whether it's the full life you're capable of building." She stands, gathering her things. "Fear makes excellent armor but poor foundation material."
After she leaves, her words linger like the scent of fresh coffee, impossible to dismiss. The rest of the day passes in mechanical motions, muscle memory carrying me through tasks while my thoughts spiral around the uncomfortable truths Max and Eleanor have forced me to confront.
Darlene from the diner stops by late afternoon, ordering her usual double espresso to go.
"I've been meaning to tell you," she says, leaning casually against the counter, "that cinnamon maple latte you made for my son's birthday party was perfect. His friends are still talking about it."
I smile, grateful for the normal conversation. "I'm glad it was a hit."
"It was." She hesitates, then adds, "Look, I know everyone's probably tiptoeing around that stupid article, but I just wanted to say—we all have pasts, Lily.
What matters is who you choose to be now.
" She accepts her espresso with a wink. "And you chose to be the person who makes the best damn coffee in Colorado, so as far as I'm concerned, you're golden. "
The simple acceptance in her words nearly undoes me. "Thank you, Darlene."
"Nothing to thank me for." She echoes Ruth's earlier dismissal. "Though if you want to show your appreciation, maybe consider a discount on my next order?"
The joke breaks the tension, and I find myself laughing genuinely for the first time all day. "Nice try."
At four, the typical mid-afternoon lull settles over the shop. I take advantage of the quiet to begin preparations for closing, eager to retreat to my cottage despite knowing its emptiness will only amplify my loneliness.
The bell chimes. I look up automatically, prepared for disappointment.
Max stands in the doorway, holding a small potted cactus with a single vibrant pink bloom.
"Peace offering." His smile is hesitant, uncertainty shadowing his usually confident expression. "The florist said it's nearly impossible to kill, which seemed appropriate for someone who spends their life nurturing things."
Words desert me entirely, relief and lingering hurt creating a bottleneck in my throat.
"I was wrong to push so hard." He approaches the counter slowly, setting the cactus down as carefully as if it were made of glass. "Your boundaries exist for reasons I didn't fully understand, and I had no right to challenge them."
"You were right, though." The admission comes easier than expected. "About some of it, at least."
Surprise flickers across his face. "Can we talk? Properly?"
I glance around the empty shop, then flip the sign to CLOSED.
"Let's go home."
The walk to my cottage passes in silence, not an uncomfortable silence, but a weighted one. Inside, the space feels different somehow—as if our argument reshaped its contours, leaving nothing quite as it was before.
Max waits for me to take the lead, remaining near the door until I gesture toward the sofa. We sit facing each other, close enough to reach out but maintaining a small distance that feels symbolic of the gap between us.
"I need to tell you everything." The decision crystallizes as I speak. "The full story, not just the sanitized version."
He nods, giving me space to continue at my own pace.