Chapter 7 Colt #2
"That's not—" I frown at the man who somehow still gives me nightmares. "I didn't write that—"
What the hell?
Is Gabe Devereaux initiating banter?!
"'Her eyes are like pools of warm caramel,'" Gabe continues, clearly making this up as he goes, "'and when she hands me a spatula, I just want to look her in the eye and lick—'"
I snatch it from his hands so fast I nearly take his fingers with it.
"It's research for the partnership, you overgrown lump."
Gabe's expression says he doesn't believe a single syllable. Behind him, Samuel's arms are crossed, and those captain's eyes are doing that thing where they see straight through your bullshit and out the other side.
"Since when do you care enough to do research?" Samuel says flatly.
"For your information, I studied business strategy in college." I shove the notebook deep into my bag and yank the zipper shut.
"You went to college?!" Cade calls out, high-fiving Silas.
"For two whole semesters, thank you very much."
"Two semesters!" Silas claps a hand to his chest. "Boys, gather 'round. Our Colt's a scholar."
Samuel tilts his head and smirks along with them. "Is that also why you sent her to the beauty salon last night?"
Oh, come on.
"Who told you about that?"
Samuel's lip twitches. "What can I say… It's a small town, Lane."
"Alright, I'm leaving now." I shoulder my bag, notebook secure, backing toward the exit. "Great chat, everyone. Really nice to be back around the team. Love the energy."
I push through the Clawhouse doors and step into the cool corridor, my pulse still jackhammering.
That was close.
Nobody needs to know that I've been reading that notebook every night. Turning those worn pages under the lamp in my silent apartment, tracing the loops of her handwriting with my thumb, unable to stop thinking about her for once damn second.
The thing I just can't get past is…
She wrote her dreams in that book. Every single one.
Her franchise maps. Her five-year projections. The menu concepts she sketched with tiny croissant drawings in the margins.
And then she shoved them on a high shelf and told herself they didn't matter anymore.
That's not fair.
I head out of The Den and pile into my SUV, excited to tell Zoey my news. The sage-green door of Butter Batch is propped open when I arrive, letting the late morning breeze carry the scent of warm sugar and toasted almonds straight into the street.
Through the serving window, I can see the back kitchen is already clean. The trays are stacked, the counters wiped, the Italian brick oven is cooling down from its morning shift.
"Morrison?" I call out, looking through the kitchen doors for a flash of silky hair. "Your favorite ambassador has arrived. Late, but bearing good news and an incredible personality."
I spot her leaning against the prep counter with a stack of photographs fanned out in front of her. The sunshine is pouring through the window behind her, and Jesus Christ.
She's still wearing the glow from last night's salon trip.
She's wearing a black Butter Batch top that hugs every soft curve of her breasts. And those jeans. Christ. They cling to the thick flare of her hips, the lush curve of her ass, and all I want is to sink my fingers into them until she gasps.
Dammit. What has Cade's little talk done to me?
"Hey." I keep my voice easy, casual, even though my blood is anything but. "What are you looking at?"
She startles slightly, then holds up the stack of photographs.
"Oh, hey, Colt." She says, smiling. "Delaney dropped off the proofs from the photo shoot. For the partnership content."
I move closer, and I see her skin is luminous, glowing in a way that makes me want to trace the line of her face with my mouth. Debbie's treatment has done wonders on an already beautiful face.
And her lips… those full, perfect lips. Goddammit. So kissable.
She's got a few pictures spread across the counter.
The bakery shots look great: the display case gleaming, the Butter Batch signage out the front, a branded close-up of her famous raspberry tarts that would make anyone's mouth water.
But the picture in her hand… that's a picture of us.
"Damn." I keep my tone light, testing the water. "We look good together."
In the picture, my arm is around her waist, her body curved naturally into mine. We're both looking at the camera with expressions that have no business being on a hockey promotional photo.
It looks intimate. It looks romantic.
Like we share a bed instead of a business arrangement.
We both just stand there, staring at the picture, and I'm bracing for the deflection. The famous Zoey eye roll or sharp quip designed to keep me safely on the other side of the line she's drawn.
But Zoey doesn't do that.
She stares at the photo for another second, then turns her head, and those warm brown eyes find mine from inches away.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "We do."
The air in the bakery changes. Like someone's turned the temperature up and narrowed the walls until there's nothing left in the world but the space between us.
"So... Um. Where's Morgs?" I say roughly, stepping closer.
My eyes fall to those lips again, my tongue swiping across my own.
Zoey swallows, and I watch the movement travel down her throat. "She's at school. Then she's going to a friend's house after soccer practice. Won't be back for a couple hours."
"Oh?" I breathe.
I should tell her the good news. That I've been cleared for skating. That I've got tickets for Saturday night, and I want to take both of them to see my world.
Maybe I could even surprise her and say that I've been reading her notebook like scripture and it keeps me up at night because the woman who wrote those plans deserves every single dream she buried on that shelf.
But right now, looking at her with that photo of us together lying between her fingers—
I don't want to talk about any of it.
"Zoey…"
I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail down to her jaw.
Her breath catches. A small, sharp sound that detonates in my chest as she turns to face me.
The photo falls from her fingers, drifting to the counter, and suddenly her eyes are bright and fierce and terrified all at once…
like she's standing at the edge of something she's been running from for years.
I know that feeling. I'm standing right there with her.
"I think I'm done waiting," I say roughly. "I think I've been done waiting since I woke up and you were the only person sitting beside my bed in that hospital."
Her hands come up to rest on my chest, and I don't know if she's going to push me away or pull me in. My heart is hammering so hard she has to feel it under her palms.
"Colt..." Her voice is a whisper. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to let someone in without—"
"I know." I cup her face in both hands, tilting her chin up until her eyes meet mine. "I don't know how to do this either. But I want to try. With you."
Her eyes change as her features soften. The fear doesn't disappear, but something else rises up beside it.
"Then stop talking," she breathes, "and kiss me."
I don't need to be told twice.
My mouth finds hers and the world goes white.
The sound she makes against my lips is soft, desperate… a wrecked little gasp that nearly puts me on my knees. I kiss her harder, pulling her so close there's no space left between us. Her hands grip the front of my jacket like she's been fighting this as long as I have and that's when I know…
She's done.
She's as done as I am.
Her fingers twist into the fabric, yanking me closer, and I groan against her mouth. My tongue splits her lips open and I swipe it against hers, tasting her for the very first time.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing like we just sprinted the length of the ice. Her hands are still knotted in my jacket and my forehead is pressed against hers.
For a long moment, neither of us says a word. My heart is slamming so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Then Zoey laughs.
"Well." She exhales against my lips. "I can't believe that just happened."
I grin, and the smile feels different than any I've worn before. Not crafted for cameras or locker rooms or the parents who never showed up.
Just happy.
"Yeah," I murmur. "Me neither."
Her fingers loosen in my jacket but stay pressed against my chest, right over my heartbeat. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are swollen. And she's biting the bottom one like she's trying to hold back a smile.
She's glowing.
And the look she gives me says everything neither of us is ready to say out loud.
Yeah, I think, heart so full it might actually crack my ribs.
This is definitely something worth trying for.