Chapter 13
Colt
Ilump another chunk of butter in the pan, because why the fuck not?
It sizzles and melts around the thick-cut steak, the cast iron hissing as I spoon garlic and rosemary over the crust. The kitchen fills with that deep, smoky warmth that makes everything feel like it's exactly where it's supposed to be.
Including the woman sitting at my kitchen island, drowning in my Snow Leopards hoodie and not much else.
Zoey's perched on the stool with her knees drawn up, bare feet tucked beneath her, her dark hair still mussed from the sofa. The hoodie swallows her whole, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
She looks like she lives here.
And that thought should scare me. Instead, it just makes me flip the steak with a little more swagger than necessary.
"You're showing off," she says, watching me over the rim of the wine glass I poured her.
"I don't show off."
"You literally just tossed that steak in the air."
"That's called technique, Morrison."
She snorts, taking a sip. "It's called a liability. If that lands on the floor, I'm eating your share."
Behind us, the TV hums with some movie neither of us has looked at in twenty minutes. I think it's a thriller. There might be a car chase happening.
Honestly, I couldn't tell you what it's called if my life depended on it, because every molecule in my body is tuned to the woman in my kitchen who's wearing nothing but my hoodie and a pair of very sexy panties underneath.
I pull the steak off the heat and let it rest on the board, then check the potatoes in the oven. They're golden with crisp edges, butter pooling in the crevices like liquid gold. The green beans are glossy with garlic and a hit of lemon zest that I did a little shimmy with just to make Zoey laugh.
"Okay. Ready to eat?"
Zoey sips her wine and nods. "Born ready."
I plate everything with more care than I usually bother with. Thick slices of steak fanned across the plate, potatoes piled beside them, green beans laid across the top like I'm plating for the goddamn food channel. I slide her plate across the island and watch her eyes.
She takes one bite of the steak and they close.
"Oh my."
"Yeah?"
"Who taught you to cook?"
"YouTube, mostly." I lean against the counter opposite her, cutting into my own plate. "And spite. My college roommate said I couldn't boil water, so I learned to make beef Wellington out of pure rage."
She laughs, sliding a strand of hair behind her ear as she stabs a potato with her fork.
For the next half an hour, we eat, and we talk.
That's it.
Morgan's sleepover texts keep rolling in, and Zoey shows me a photo of Morgan with glitter in her eyebrows, then another of Morgan and Isla building a blanket fort that looks structurally unsound.
Zoey shows me each one, and I lean across the island to see.
"She's having the time of her life," I murmur.
"She's going to be so tired tomorrow." Zoey shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Sugar crash by noon. Guaranteed."
"I'll have backup muffins ready."
She shoots me a look. "You're enabling her."
"I'm investing in her happiness. There's a difference."
The conversation drifts to the bakery. To the recipe we finally nailed, together despite what Zoey is saying. She thinks I should get credit at the launch event Delaney's planning at The Den this Saturday.
But I'm having none of it.
This is Zoey's moment. And I'm gonna make damn sure she gets everything she deserves.
"So walk me through it," Zoey says, dragging a green bean through the garlic butter on her plate. "What exactly happens at a Snow Leopards VIP event?"
"Depends. Delaney's involved, so expect champagne, speeches, and at least one moment where she makes a grown man cry."
Zoey laughs. "And the pastries? How many do I need?"
"Enough for two hundred people who've been drinking since six PM. So… a lot."
"Two hundred?"
"Relax. You've got three days. And—" I glance over to the tray of half-demolished pastries. "… You've got me."
She grins, shaking her head, and something warm spreads through my chest.
We clear the plates together, bumping hips at the sink, her washing while I dry. It's so domestic it should feel weird, but somehow, it feels like the most natural thing I've ever done.
I set the last plate in the cabinet and lean back against the counter, watching Zoey wipe her hands on the dish towel.
And then I ask the thing I've been holding in my mouth since the sofa.
"Can I ask you something?"
I see the shift in her shoulders immediately. The way her spine straightens beneath my hoodie.
But she nods. "What's up?"
"Earlier. On the sofa." I choose my words carefully, rolling them over in my head before I let them out, which by the way, is so unlike me. "You stopped me. When I was… going down on you. And in the locker room, you cried. But you said it wasn't because you didn't want it."
She's looking at the counter now, tracing a circle in the granite with her fingertip.
"So what's going on, Zo?" I keep my voice light and gentle. At least, I hope I do. "Is this going too fast for you?"
The silence stretches. The movie's still murmuring in the other room, some muffled explosion, but in here it's just us and the noise of the fridge.
Zoey exhales and grabs her wine glass, drawing back one big sip before dropping it back down.
And then, in what feels like one giant breathless explanation of her entire life, she tells me everything.
About her ex-husband. About their early marriage that she claims was a mistake. About how sex became a to-do list item.
She goes into detail about how after Morgan was born and the walls of their apartment were tissue-paper thin, she trained herself to be silent. About how eventually the silence became permanent, and the wanting just… stopped.
Then, as we move to the island counter again, my forearms pressed on the cold surface as I listen to every word she says, she tells me about the two years since.
About how no one has touched her. Not once.
I don't interrupt. I just listen, every muscle in my body locked tight because if I move, I might break something.
"… and so, I swear I used to be loud," she whispers, and her voice cracks on the word. "I used to love it, Colt. I used to love being vocal, you know what I'm like."
I smile and nod. "Yeah, I do."
She smiles and shakes her head. "And now… it's like I don't even know if I remember how."
"Well, you did."
She blinks up at me.
I wink. "On the sofa. For about three seconds before you caught yourself. And Zo?" I hold her gaze. "It was the hottest thing I've ever heard in my entire life."
A wet laugh escapes her, half-sob, half-relief. She swipes at her eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie.
My hand finds hers on the counter, my fingers threading through hers, warm and steady.
"Come with me."
I lead her down the hallway to the bathroom and flick the lights on. She watches as I reach into the shower and crank the handle until steam starts curling toward the ceiling, filling the room with warmth that wraps around us instantly.
Then I turn to her.
My hands find the hem of the hoodie, and I lift it over her head slowly, letting my knuckles graze her ribs, her breasts, her collarbone. She lifts her arms and the fabric slides free, leaving her in nothing but those panties I pulled off earlier.
I kiss her shoulder. The curve of her neck. The spot behind her ear that makes her breath hitch.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur against her skin. "Every single inch."
My thumbs hook into the waistband, and I slide the last piece of fabric down her thighs, dropping to my knees as I go. I press a kiss to her hip bone, loving the way she shivers as her fingers find my hair.
I stand up as the room fills with steam, stripping off my own clothes. Zoey's eyes study my body, watching every muscle move as I step into the shower. The water hits my shoulders, hot and perfect, and I reach for her hand.
"Come in," I offer.
She takes it and the steam swallows us whole.
I pour soap into my palms, work it into a lather, and start with her shoulders. My thumbs press into the knots at the base of her neck, and she lets out this quiet, surrendering sigh that settles in my bones.
"All this work you've been doing," I say against her cheek, my hands sliding down her arms. "One day you're going to look back and see it was all worth it. You know that, right?"
She closes her eyes and makes a small noise.
So I keep going, helping her relax.
"Every early morning. Every burnt tray. Every night you fell asleep standing up."
She laughs softly, leaning back against me, her head resting on my chest.
"It will all be worth it one day, Zoey. Trust me."
My soapy hands trace the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the softness of her belly. I don't skip anything. Don't rush past the parts she probably hates.
I worship all of it.
My palms slide up to cup her breasts, soap-slick and warm under the water. I roll her nipples gently between my fingers, feeling them peak and harden under my touch, and the moan she releases makes my cock twitch against her ass.
"That's it, baby." I press my lips to her neck, kissing and licking her skin. "Let me hear you."
My right hand drifts lower over her stomach, past her navel until I split her folds with two fingers, feeling how wet she already is beneath the water.
She gasps, pressing back against me. "Colt—"
"Mmmm, that's it." I slide one finger inside her, slow and deep, and her whole body shudders against mine. "You're so fucking amazing, Zo."
I work her slowly, circling her clit with my thumb, keeping my other arm wrapped tight around her waist like I’m afraid she might float away in the steam. The water runs down her skin in rivers, tracing the dip of her spine, the swell of her ass, and I’m so fucking gone for every inch of it.
“That’s it, Zo,” I murmur into the damp hair at her temple. My voice is rough, wrecked already. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”