Chapter 12 #2
"Wow, Lane. This place is nice."
And I mean it.
The entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, framing a view of the mountains that looks photoshopped. The floors are this gorgeous warm walnut, and there's a gray sofa that looks like it's never been sat on.
It's beautiful. It's pristine.
It's also weirdly... empty.
No photos on the walls. No stack of mail on the counter. Nothing that says a person actually lives here. It looks like the kind of place a real estate agent stages for an open house, right down to the suspiciously symmetrical throw blankets.
I turn slowly, taking it in. "Did you just move in?"
"Two years ago," Colt says, tossing his keys into a little ceramic bowl by the door.
"Two years?" I blink at him. "Colt, where's your stuff?"
He huffs out a laugh, leaning back against the door with his arms crossed.
"What were you expecting, Morrison? Jockstraps on the chandelier?"
"Well, yeah. I was expecting at least one empty pizza box on the floor." I run my finger along the back of the sectional, which is — yep — flawlessly clean. "Maybe a Gatorade bottle living its best life under the couch. Some evidence of a human male in his late twenties."
"I'll have you know I'm very tidy."
"You're very something."
I narrow my eyes at him and follow him into the kitchen.
At least this looks used. There are actual dishes in the sink, and ingredients scattered all across the bench. And on the counter—
"Um, Colt… what are those?"
I slow to a complete stop, looking directly at a tray of golden, perfectly risen, lightly glistening pastries cooling on a rack. They look like they were just pulled out of the oven.
They also look astonishingly like something I've tried to make before.
Colt's standing beside the counter, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, looking at me like he's bracing for impact.
"Those… are why you're here." He steps over to the tray and collects the best looking pastry. "I want you to taste one."
"…What?"
"Taste it, Zo."
He holds the pastry up between us, fingers steady, eyes locked on mine in a way that turns my stomach into mush.
"Open."
He brings it to my mouth, slow, careful, and I feel the warmth of his fingertips brush the corner of my lip as my teeth sink into the pastry. Flaky layers shatter as buttery crumbs catch on my bottom lip.
Colt doesn't look away when I lick them off, his blue eyes tracking every flicker across my face like he's memorizing it.
The flavors hit my tongue in the perfect order. Brown butter, melting and nutty. A whisper of cardamom I'd been meaning to try for months. The vanilla from Madagascar I splurged on and ration like gold. There's even a delicious salt note at the back that makes my eyes flutter closed.
It's good.
It's so good it could go in the case tomorrow.
"Oh my God."
"Yeah?"
"Colt." I look up at him, mouth still full. "This is really good. How did you—"
And then I see it.
There, on the kitchen counter beside the tray.
The caramel leather is unmistakable, soft and worn in the exact places my fingers know by heart.
"Colt… is that—" My voice breaks, coming out flat. "Is that my notebook?"
He swallows hard. "Yes."
"You stole it."
"I borrowed it."
"No… You stole my notebook?"
I can see his shoulders start to square up, the way he holds himself before a hit he knows is coming.
"I was going to give it back. I am going to give it back. I just—" His hand drags through his hair.
"You've had it this whole time while I've been killing myself trying to recreate a recipe I couldn't find?"
He steps in closer, chest leaning against mine.
"Zo. I just wanted to help. I know you've been killing yourself trying to get that recipe right, but I just kept thinking, if I could just have a go… maybe all your dreams could come true."
I look at the notebook, remembering exactly that. My dreams. I gave up on them a long time ago, but this man? He just won't let them fade.
"I hope it's okay, Zo. I didn't mean to overstep. Really, I didn't."
I watch his face, the softness in his eyes where the swagger has finally fallen away. He really was just trying to help.
Just let him in.
"Oh, Colt."
I drop the pastry and grab the front of his hoodie, kissing him so fierce he stumbles back against the counter and pulls back to finish the sentence I stole.
"Zoey—"
But I can't stop.
I grab him again, pulling his mouth to mine, and Colt makes a low, broken sound before his hands grab my waist and he kisses me back. He lifts me off the floor, and my legs lock around his waist as he carries me to the sofa and lays me down on that perfectly untouched throw blanket.
He hovers over me, and his blue eyes have gone black.
"Just say the word, and we stop."
I shake my head. "No. Don't stop. God, Colt… don't ever stop being you."
His kisses me again, his hands sliding up under my sweater the way they did in the locker room. Only this time, there's no team on the other side of a door. No Morgan three blocks away. No reason on the entire goddamn planet to not do this.
He pulls my sweater over my head and tosses it aside. His hoodie follows, then his t-shirt, and my hands slide up over his shoulders, down his chest, across abs that are ridiculous.
He's all carved, lean muscle and sun-warm skin. He has a faint silver scar across his ribs and another along his collarbone, and the bruise around his eye… that bruise I've watched fade for weeks, is finally, completely gone.
He's flawless.
In every possible way.
"You're beautiful," I whisper, fingertips trailing down his sternum.
"Hey. That's my line."
He huffs a laugh against my collarbone and moves to kiss me again, unclipping my bra one-handed. It falls away and his mouth finds my breast, his tongue circling my nipple, and I arch off the sofa with a quiet gasp.
My fingers thread through his hair as he breathes against my skin. His mouth moves to the other side and sucks gently.
I try to make a sound, to keep him going, to spur him on and show that I'm okay.
But it doesn't come out too easily and the nerves start to creep in.
His hands work my jeans down my hips anyway, and I lift my ass off the sofa to help him, even as an uneasy pressure coils low in my stomach.
He drags them off slowly, kissing every inch of skin he reveals. My belly. My hip bone. The soft inside of my thigh.
I swallow hard, shoving down the spiralling thoughts as my fingers tighten in his hair without meaning to.
He slides to his knees on the rug in front of the sofa, and the look he gives me — God. I almost flinch.
"Oh my God, Zoey. You're so fucking incredible."
His hands skim up the outside of my thighs, his thumbs hooking into the sides of my panties, and he looks up at me from between my legs with eyes that promise the world.
Let him give you the world.
His thumbs hook deeper, dragging the lace down just an inch, and he leans in and presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh, breathing me in like I'm something he's been starving for.
"Christ, baby." His voice has gone rough, husky as hell. "You smell so fucking sweet. Like sugar. Like mine."
He kisses higher. Slower. His lips brush the crease of my hip and I feel his exhale shudder warm against me.