Chapter 2 Zoey
Zoey
Islide the third tray of raspberry tarts into the oven and take a look around at my happy place.
Yeah, there's a horrid mess leftover from the mad morning rush scattered around the bakery. There's an endless to-do list pinned to the corkboard above my mixing station, and even a stack of red-stamped supplier bills I've been avoiding since last month hidden in the back corner.
But at least it's just me, pretending everything is alright. I've got my kitchen, and the sun is shining through Butter Batch's front windows.
It could be worse, right?
Everything in this bakery tells a story, from the reclaimed wood counter I found at a farm auction, to the sage-green walls I painted at two in the morning while Morgan slept upstairs.
Even the hand-lettered menu board above the register took me six attempts to get right, each failed version crumpled on my apartment floor at midnight while I stress-ate my way through an entire test batch of raspberry tarts.
Eight years ago, I drove into Chilmore with a toddler in a car seat, a second-hand oven strapped into a rented trailer, and approximately zero idea what I was doing.
Now look at me.
I still have no idea what I'm doing. But at least my pastries are good.
"Zoey! You awake back there, or has the yeast army finally claimed you?"
Harold Frost's raspy voice cuts through my morning meditation, and I wipe my hands on my apron before pushing through the swinging door to the front counter.
"I'm awake, Harold. Unlike some people who were supposed to pick up their order forty minutes ago."
Harold stands at the display case, his wild gray hair defying gravity as usual, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He's pressed against the display case I've loaded with delicious treats, examining the croissants like they're fine art.
Which honestly, they are. Even if I have to say so myself.
"Millicent had opinions about which pastries to add," he grumbles. "She has opinions about everything. Forty-seven years of marriage, and the woman still thinks she knows better than me about pastry."
"She does know better than you about pastry, Harold." I start boxing up his regular order—two dozen assorted pastries for Frost Café, because apparently his coffee empire needs my baked goods to survive. "That's why you're here every morning instead of baking your own."
"I could bake my own," he huffs.
"Millie told me you burned a pot of water last month."
"It just ran dry!"
"Well you should stick to making coffee and let your wonderful wife make her delicious scones. Leave the pastries to me."
From behind me, a snort echoes through the bakery, and I don't even have to turn around to know who it is.
Quinn Reyes has waltzed on in, perched herself on the counter behind my register and has a look on her face like she owns the place. Her black boots are dangling, and somehow, she already has a Butter Batch latte cupped between her tattooed hands.
"Harold, sweetheart," Quinn drawls, "the only thing you should be operating in a kitchen is the dishwasher. And even that's a stretch."
Harold glares at her over his glasses. "Don't you have a tattoo shop to run?"
Quinn's violet-black hair is dead straight today, and she's got that look that says she's about to make my life significantly more interesting.
"Don't you have a wife to argue with?" Quinn quips in return.
"Touché." Harold winks and nods his head. "You people and your sharp tongues. Oh, to be young again."
I slide the bakery boxes across the counter, already mentally preparing the rest of my morning.
I dropped Morgan at school two hours ago. So now I need to prep the afternoon batch of brownies, get the inventory order sent off by noon, and somewhere in amongst the chaos of customers, I'm supposed to eat actual food that isn't scraped from the bottom of a mixing bowl and exercise.
"That'll be forty-two fifty," I tell Harold, tapping the register.
He hands over the cash without complaint and tucks the boxes under his arm.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time every day for the past three years, Harold. I think we've established the pattern."
He grunts his gratitude, shoots one more suspicious look at Quinn, and shuffles toward the door.
"You young whippersnappers and your attitudes," he mutters on his way out. "Back in my day, we showed respect to our elders."
"Back in your day, dinosaurs roamed the earth!" Quinn calls after him.
The bell above the door chimes as Harold disappears into the Chilmore cold, and I finally let myself exhale.
Quinn takes a long sip of her latte, watching me over the rim. "You look like shit, by the way."
"Oh, thank you, Quinn. Your kind words are, as always, overwhelming."
"I'm serious." She hops off the counter and moves closer. "When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
I narrow my eyes at Quinn, because the honest answer to that question is so pathetic it might actually make her cry.
When's the last time I slept… at all?!
Here's the thing about being a single mom that nobody warns you about: sleep isn't a right. It's a negotiation. And the other party in that negotiation is a ten-year-old girl who has somehow developed the bedtime compliance of a feral raccoon.
Last night she stood in the doorway of my bedroom at 10PM to inform me that she 'can't sleep because her brain won't stop being interesting.'
When she'd finally crashed, sprawled diagonally across my bed, one foot on my pillow, hogging the entire comforter, I didn't move her.
I never move her.
Instead, I curled into the remaining fourteen inches of mattress, pulled a throw blanket up to my chin, and stared at the ceiling until my 3:45 AM alarm dragged me out of bed again.
"Morgs having nightmares again, huh?" Quinn says, and I realize she's been staring at me this whole time. "What was it this time?"
"Oh, you know… Something about her math teacher turning into a giant spider, which honestly, having met Mrs. Briggs, feels less like a nightmare and more like a real-life documentary."
"Quinn—"
"I'm just saying." She leans against the counter, arms crossed. "You're running yourself into the ground, Zoey. When's the last time you did something that wasn't related to this bakery or your kid?"
I don't have an answer. Because the truth is, I haven't thought about myself in so long that I've forgotten what that even looks like.
After Daniel, my high school sweetheart and now ex-husband, left with no note, no call, no forwarding address while Morgan was still in diapers… I learned to shrink my world down to what I could control.
My daughter. My bakery. My scheduled.
It's simple, really.
Stay focused. Stay happy.
"I'm fine," I tell Quinn, even though we both know that's the biggest lie I've told since I assured Morgan that her father was 'just busy' when he missed her fifth birthday. And her sixth. And every birthday after that.
Quinn opens her mouth to argue, but the bell above the door chimes again, and every rational thought I've ever had flies straight out of my head.
Because Colt Lane just walked into my bakery.
My body does something completely involuntary, like a full-body shiver that starts at the base of my spine and spreads outward like wildfire. The tingle races up through my ribcage, across my chest, and—oh God—settles directly into my nipples, which tighten against my bra.
Well. That's about the most excitement these girls have had all week.
The Snow Leopards' golden boy, who by the way, is possibly the sexiest man alive, is standing in my bakery, all broad shoulders and easy confidence, that purple Snow Leopards jacket stretched across his chest like a personal invitation to think about what's hidden beneath.
Quinn makes a whoo sound behind me, so I toss the cleaning cloth at her before she opens her big mouth.
His sandy blonde hair is perfectly styled, and those blue eyes that crinkle at the edges are scanning the bakery, slow and warm, until they finally land on me.
And then he smiles. Just like he did this morning at The Den. When I tried so damn hard not to be excited to see him.
It's that devastating, dimple-popping, panty-dropping smile that I'm absolutely certain has convinced countless women to make terrible decisions.
When was the last time someone smiled at me like that?
The thought catches me off guard. Because the answer is never. Daniel never looked at me like I was the only person in a room. He looked at me like I was furniture. Convenient. Forgettable.
Colt Lane is looking at me like I'm the sunrise after a long, dark night.
"And good morning to you." Colt says when the silence in the bakery drags a little too long. "Fancy seeing you here, Zoey."
"I work here, Lane."
"Do you?" He feigns surprise, pressing a hand to the Snow Leopards logo on his chest. "I had no idea. I just followed the sweet smell of vanilla, and voilà. There you are."
My stomach does a little flip before I shove it down where it belongs.
I’m a grown woman, not a giggling teenager.
I force a smile, wiping my hands on my sage-green Butter Batch apron to keep them busy. “A sweet smell? Or was it the deeply concerning amount of sugar that lured you in?”
Colt leans casually against the counter, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
I swear he knows. He knows exactly how good he looks, how much attention he’s pulling, and how absolutely not immune I am to it.
“Could be sugar,” he says, tipping his head like he’s giving it serious thought. “But I think it’s you, Morrison. You just have that… luring effect.”
My stomach flips again. Damn him.
“Oh my God." Quinn, from her perch behind the espresso machine, snorts loudly. "Colt Lane, if you're looking for the poor life choices, you can find them in aisle three. They're right next to the man who clearly has nowhere else to be on a Tuesday morning."
Colt's gaze shifts to Quinn, and his grin widens. "Ah. The tattoo artist. Still mad about last month?"