Chapter 4 Zoey #2
I have approximately three seconds of peace before I hear him shuffling around back there.
I use those three seconds to take a breath and remind myself that this is a business arrangement.
A professional partnership. I am an adult woman who has handled difficult situations before, and I can certainly handle one overgrown hockey player who smells like—
But then he emerges from the back with a tray in hand. Only now, he has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Oh HELL no.
Holy hell, those forearms.
They're tanned. How is he tanned in Chilmore?! Not only that, but they're corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the skin. They flex as he adjusts his grip on the tray, and my core floods with a feeling I completely forgot I could feel.
I force my gaze away, busying myself with the coffee machine.
"Oh shit, Zoey! Help!"
CRASH.
I spin around, and my heart drops straight through the floor.
Colt is standing in the middle of my bakery, and my beautiful, golden-topped, perfectly risen blueberry muffins are scattered across the tile in every direction.
Caramel bites have rolled to the far corners of the room, some crushed under his sneakers, others lodged beneath the display case where I'll be fishing them out for months.
One tray is still spinning on its edge, the metal scrape against tile echoing through the sudden silence before it finally clatters to a stop at his feet.
I stare at the destruction. Then at him.
"Um." He looks down at the carnage, then back up at me. "Whoops?"
Before I can respond, the door chimes. Then again. Then again.
Because the morning rush doesn't wait for muffin disasters.
"Go—just—" I wave him out of the way, dropping to my knees to salvage what I can. "Go stand somewhere. Anywhere. Just don't touch anything else."
He retreats toward the back, and I spend the next three minutes on my hands and knees, picking up muffins while customers file past me like this is completely normal.
Maybe it is now. Maybe this is just my life.
Story of my life, really. I spent my childhood picking up after three hockey-obsessed brothers, then I spent my marriage picking up after a man who couldn't be bothered to stay.
Even now… I pick up after Morgan. Which I don't mind, because she's mine.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I deposit the survivors onto a clean tray, mentally calculating the lost profit. Twelve muffins, gone. Three hours of work, wasted. And one overgrown hockey player who apparently has the spatial awareness of a puppy in a china shop.
I glance toward the back where I banished him, but he's not there.
He's right next to me.
"Need help?" Colt's voice comes from directly behind me.
I look up. He's crouched down, reaching for a caramel bite that rolled under the display case.
"I've got it." I snatch the caramel bite before he can. "Just—here, take these to the back. The ones that hit the floor are trash. The rest go on the counter."
He nods, gathering the survivors into his arms like he's rescuing wounded soldiers.
The next hour is pure chaos.
Colt tries to help. He really does. But he's too big for my small kitchen. Every time I turn around, he's there… reaching past me for a tray, squeezing through the narrow gap between the counter and the display case, his body radiating heat like a furnace.
At one point, he slides past me to grab a stack of napkins, and his hand grazes my hip. I can't help but hope Morgan sleeps tonight so I can relive the moment. Alone. In my bed.
"New hire, Zoey?"
Mrs. Jenkins is peering at Colt over the top of her reading glasses, her weekly order of apple turnovers clutched to her chest.
"Something like that." I manage a smile. "Colt, no—!"
But it's too late. The clumsiest man on earth has already knocked over the stack of to-go boxes I spent twenty minutes showing him how to fold correctly.
"Sorry," he says sheepishly.
I roll my eyes, get back to work, and by early afternoon, the rush has finally slowed down.
The display case is half-empty. Some from sales, some from Colt-related casualties, but at least the batch of experimental apricot danishes sold out in record time. Though I suspect that had more to do with the audience watching Colt fumble around my kitchen than any sudden danish appreciation.
I lean against the counter, exhausted.
From the back, I hear the sound of running water at the sink.
"Hey Boss, do these oven trays go in the dishwasher, or...?" The voice fades. "Um, Zoey? What's this?"
I close my eyes and move out through the back door, thinking it's going to be a long two weeks.
I find him standing by the high shelf near the copper pots, sleeves still rolled to his elbows, forearms glistening with soap suds.
But that's not what stops me dead in my tracks.
It's what he's holding.
He's holding a worn leather notebook. It's the color of caramel, soft from years of handling, the spine cracked from being opened too many times.
It's my notebook. The one I shoved up on the shelf three years ago and tried to forget existed.
"Give me that—"
I lunge, but he's already flipping through the pages, brow furrowed with genuine curiosity. His soapy fingers leave wet marks on the pages, and I want to scream.
"Colt! Would you stop ruining everything?!"
But he's not listening.
"Is this... a business plan?"
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
That notebook contains everything. The franchise dreams I sketched out on napkins during Morgan's nap times.
Expansion layouts for a Butter Batch empire across multiple locations, a commercial kitchen, branded packaging with the golden whisk logo I designed myself.
There are old real estate listings I printed out and highlighted, back when I still let myself believe it was possible.
Detailed drawings of shop layouts and menu concepts for seasonal rotations.
Even the five-year financial projections I did the math on during late nights after Morgan was asleep are still smudged in there somewhere.
All of it abandoned.
All of it shelved.
Because dreams are for people who don't have school drop-offs and bills and a daughter who needs her mother to be present, not distracted by impossible futures.
Colt looks up at me, and for the first time today, his expression isn't teasing. Those bright blue eyes have gone soft. Curious. Like he's seeing something he didn't expect to find in the back of a small-town bakery.
"Zoey." His voice is quieter than I've ever heard it. "This is incredible. Why aren't you—"
I snatch the notebook from his hands, hugging it to my chest like I can shove all those dreams back inside and pretend he never saw them.
"It's nothing. Old stuff. Just… drop it, okay?"