Chapter 4 Zoey #3
But the damage is done.
He's seen it. The version of myself I stopped letting exist. That notebook is my secret heart. My proof that I used to want more.
I feel exposed in a way that's worse than if he saw my stretch marks.
"Old stuff?" Colt leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "That doesn't look old. That looks like someone who knows exactly what she wants."
"Knew." I correct him sharply. "Past tense."
"What happened?"
The question is so simple. So genuine. And I don't know what to do with Colt Lane looking at me like he is.
"Life happened." I shrug, but the casual gesture feels hollow. "Morgan happened. Chilmore happened. Turns out you can't build an empire when you're barely keeping the lights on."
He's quiet for a moment. The only sound is the popping of the mountain of bubbles threatening to overflow the sink.
"You really thought you could do all that?" He nods toward the notebook. "The franchise thing?"
"I knew I could do it." The words come out fiercer than I intended. "I had a blog. I had the plan. The recipes. I had—" I stop myself, swallowing hard. "It doesn't matter now."
"Why not?"
"Because some things matter more." I meet his eyes, and that old sinking feeling in my gut weighs heavy again. "Morgan matters more. I can't chase dreams when my daughter needs me."
Colt sighs heavily, then pushes off the counter and takes a step closer. "You know what I see when I look at that notebook?"
I don't answer.
"I see someone who believed in her dreams." He reaches out, and for one heart-stopping second I think he's going to touch me, but his fingers just brush the edge of the worn leather cover I'm clutching like a shield. "And I don't think dreams expire, Zoey."
Colt's gaze drops to my mouth, and my breath catches. I swear to God, he leans in and my traitorous body sways toward him like he's magnetic.
Is he going to—
Do I want him to—
Oh god, I want him to.
But I take a deliberate step back, breaking whatever spell his words are weaving around me. "That's very poetic for a man who draws stick figures on locker room whiteboards."
The deflection lands exactly where I need it to. Colt's serious expression cracks into that familiar grin, and I tell myself the moment is over. Tell myself the flutter in my chest is just stress from a long day.
I absolutely do not let myself wonder what it would feel like to believe him.
And right on cue, the back door bursts open with the force of a small hurricane.
"MOM! I'm home! Is Colt still here? COLT!"
Morgan tumbles in, backpack instantly dumped on the kitchen floor as she skids to a stop on the tile floor, sneakers squeaking, and takes in the scene.
Colt's still standing by the sink, surrounded by bubbles with his sleeves rolled over his now glistening arms.
Morgan's eyes go scrunched, like she's trying to think a little too hard.
"Um. Mom." She points at Colt's forearms with an accusing finger. "Who's that cartoon man who eats all the spinach?"
I blink, still clutching the notebook to my chest. "...Popeye?"
Morgan bounces on the spot, practically vibrating. "Yeah! Popeye! Colt, you look like Popeye!"
Colt flexes dramatically, popping his bicep and making the most ridiculous face I've ever seen on a grown man. His cheeks puff out, his eyes cross, and he lets out a grunt that sounds nothing like any human should make.
Morgan dissolves into giggles, the sound bright and infectious.
And just like that, the tension shatters.
I watch as Colt drops into a crouch, bringing himself to Morgan's eye level. He asks about her day, about school, about whether she showed anyone her signed lunchbox.
"Everyone," Morgan announces proudly. "Even grumpy Mrs. Briggs. She said it was very nice but we shouldn't bring valuables to school. I told her it wasn't a valuable, it was a treasure."
Colt grins and scrubs her hair. "Smart kid. Hey, important question."
"Yeah?"
"Dolphins." He leans in conspiratorially. "Do you think they're actually nice, or are they just pretending?"
Morgan's face scrunches in serious consideration and I roll my eyes. Great. That's exactly the type of question I'll be answering at two AM tomorrow morning.
"Pretending," she decides. "They smile too much. Nobody smiles that much unless they're hiding something."
"Excellent point. Very wise."
She's talking a mile a minute now, thrilled to have a captive audience who isn't a distracted, exhausted mother trying to work out whether she can afford new winter boots this month.
I sink onto a nearby stool, notebook still pressed to my chest, and watch them.
They look... natural together. Like they've known each other for years instead of hours.
Oh, boy. This is dangerous.
He's too easy with her. Too natural.
And I can't afford to let Morgan get attached to someone who isn't going to stay.
But as I watch with the notebook still warm against my chest… I realize with a sinking feeling that Morgan isn't the only one I'm worried about.
I can't afford to get attached either.