Chapter 14 Zoey
Zoey
“Stop fidgeting, sweetheart, or I’ll glue this curl to your scalp.”
Debbie’s voice is a gentle threat as her fingers work another pin into the twist of hair at the back of my neck.
I force my shoulders to relax, but it’s a losing battle. My knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since Colt kissed me goodbye two hours ago, promising he’d handle everything at The Den and I should just 'get pretty.'
As if I needed the reminder.
“He took the last trays over an hour ago,” I murmur, more to myself than to Debbie. “The raspberry tarts, the salted caramel brownies, the cardamom-butter twists… He loaded his SUV like it was game-day equipment.”
“That man,” Debbie says, her reflection in my bathroom mirror smiling softly, “has got it bad for you. And not just because of your baking, though I’m sure that helps.”
My cheeks flush.
This week has been a blur. Three days have passed since that night in Colt’s apartment. Since he showed me how he's memorized my notebook and baked my dreams into reality. Since he took me to his shower, then his bed, and showed me how to be loud again.
How to be me again.
Every time I think about it my stomach does a slow, delicious somersault.
I haven't felt like this in years. Probably since before I married Daniel.
“There,” Debbie announces, stepping back. She spins my stool around to face the full-length mirror. “Take a look.”
For a second, I don’t recognize the woman staring back.
My dark hair, usually thrown into a messy bun, falls in another famous Debbie Blowout. But tonight, special for the event at The Den, she’s done some kind of magic with a curling wand. She added what she called 'texturizing spray,' and the result is… elegant.
I'm wearing the kind of hair that belongs on a woman going to a fancy red-carpet event, not a baker who spends her days covered in food scraps.
"Go on then," Debbie says, nudging me off the stool. "Give us the entire picture. Let's see if that dress is as good as your hair."
Now, I'm not about to take anything away from Debbie's work, but the dress is the real showstopper.
It’s a wrap dress in a dark purple that shimmers with every move I make. The soft silk whispers against my skin as I stand, the V-neck dipping just enough to be daring without being indecent. The black belt cinches at my waist, emphasizing curves I usually hide under aprons and oversized sweaters.
I stare at the reflection, letting my fingers trail down the smooth silk. "You know, Debbie… I think this dress might actually be better than the one I wore to my wedding."
Debbie's reflection appears beside mine, her eyebrows climbing. "The glow-up is real, honey. And the sexy confidence is a welcome addition."
“Well, Colt did pick it out,” I say, running my hands down the silky fabric.
“Smart man,” Debbie approves, gathering her tools. “He knows what looks good on you. Now, go knock ’em dead, Zoey. This is your night.”
My night.
The thought sends a fresh wave of nerves crashing through me.
This isn’t just a party. It’s the launch of the Snow Leopards x Butter Batch partnership.
The pastries I've been working on beside Colt all week will be judged by the entire town. I swear he knows my recipes better than I do now. I don't know how many times he tested that batch before he showed me, or how many times he read my notebook.
Speaking of which, Colt has been buzzing with a secret all week. Something he found 'inspired by your notebook,' he’d said with a wicked grin.
I grab my clutch, a tiny black thing Quinn insisted I borrow, and take one last steadying breath. The apartment is quiet, Morgan is already at the event with Avery, who promised to keep her from mainlining sugar before the speeches.
It’s time.
The Leopard Den’s event space is nothing short of a winter wonderland crossed with a pastry lover’s wet dream.
I step through the arched entrance, and the massive room, usually used for corporate dinners or player draft events, has been transformed.
Snow Leopards purple and gold banners hang from the ceiling, twinkling with thousands of tiny fairy lights that mimic falling snow. In the center of the room, a giant ice sculpture of the team’s leopard mascot glitters under spotlights, its mouth open in a silent roar.
But the real masterpiece… is the bakery display.
My bakery display.
Along the entire north wall, a long table draped in linen holds my creations.
Dozens of them. Tiered stands showcase the three finalists Colt helped me choose: the Raspberry Tarts Chilmore has fallen in love with, with their glistening jewel-like tops.
The Sea Salt Dark Chocolate Brownies cut into perfect squares, Harold's favorite even if he won't admit it.
And then… the real surprise… Cardamom-Butter Twists, their flaky layers dusted with sparkling sugar, perfected by Colt Lane.
“Holy shit, Zoey.”
Quinn appears at my elbow. She’s resplendent in a black leather dress that’s so tight I can actually see her nipples.
"Wow, Quinn. Going for the 'distract everyone from the pastries' look, are we?"
She grins, striking a pose that makes the leather creak in protest.
"Please, this dress is vegan leather. It's cruelty-free and way out of your budget." She loops her arm through mine, her perfume a cloud of something expensive and dangerous. "So all of this looks insane. Did you know they had a chocolate fountain?”
I follow her pointed finger to a corner where an actual fountain of molten chocolate bubbles invitingly, surrounded by bowls of strawberries, marshmallows, and chunks of pound cake.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I whisper.
“Don’t you dare.” Quinn loops her arm through mine. “You’re going to walk in here like you own the place. That’s all your hard work up there. Now, come on. Your fan club is waiting.”
She drags me further into the room, and I see familiar faces everywhere: Millicent Frost near the punch bowl, Harold and Lars beside her, both of them scowling at the lack of 'proper whiskey.'
Willa Jameson is deep in conversation with Coach Ashford by the ice sculpture, both holding champagne flutes and looking way too romantic. And Avery is near the stage with Morgan, who is already holding a brownie in each hand.
And then, right across on the other side of the room, I see the man who has made all this possible.
Colt is standing with Samuel and Big Mike near the stage. He’s in a gray suit, and the jacket is unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white shirt beneath. He's rocking the no tie look, and the way his slacks pull tightly across his hips suggests… well.
Let’s just say I know the man is generously proportioned everywhere.
Samuel says something, and Colt throws his head back and laughs, the deep sound carrying across the room.
Then, as if sensing me, he looks up.
His mouth goes slack. Those bright blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, darken with something raw and hungry as they travel from the tips of my heels, up my legs and over the curve of my hips, following the dip of my waist as it meets the swell of my breasts.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move as his eyes finally land on my face.
Big Mike follows his gaze, raises an eyebrow, and smirks. He chuckles, clapping Colt on the shoulder, but Colt doesn’t even flinch.
He’s just… staring at me.
A slow, delicious heat spreads through my veins. My skin prickles under the intensity of his look, and he finally mouths a single word across the room.
Wow.
I give him a small, shaky smile.
“Okay,” Quinn whispers, squeezing my arm. “I take back every vaguely threatening thing I’ve ever said about that man. The way he’s looking at you right now? I think I need a cold shower. Or a Gabe.”
Colt excuses himself from Big Mike with a quick nod and starts cutting through the crowd toward me. Every step is strong, confident… his eyes never leaving mine.
“Incoming,” Quinn singsongs, releasing my arm. “Try not to melt into a puddle, babe. It’ll ruin the dress.”
She disappears into the crowd as Colt reaches me.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
“Hi,” he echoes, his voice low and rough. His hand comes up, his knuckles brushing a curl from my cheek. “You look… Christ, Zoey. You look unbelievable.”
“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself,” I say, letting my gaze wander over his suit. “The no-tie thing is working for you.”
A grin spreads across his face. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrified. Excited. Like I might throw up in the chocolate fountain.”
He laughs. “Don’t you dare. I have plans for that chocolate fountain later.”
He winks at me, sparking a rush of heat to my core, but before I can ask if I'm invited, a commotion erupts near the bakery table.
“I’m telling you, Millie, the brownie has a more robust mouthfeel! The tart is too… feminine.”
“Harold Frost, you philistine! The tart is elegant! It has depth!”
We turn to see Harold and Millicent nose-to-nose, each holding a sample plate, arguing as always. Millicent jabs a finger at Harold’s chest, sending the nearby stack of voting slips and tin of pens flying.
Colt chuckles beside me. “I think they’re taking the ‘finding a winner’ part of tonight very seriously.”
“They’re going to start a pastry war,” I groan.
“Let them.” Colt’s hand finds the small of my back, his touch warm through the fabric. “It means they care. Come on, let’s go mingle before Delaney starts herding us toward the stage to explain the voting process.”
We circulate separately, as planned.
Colt works the room with his natural charm, shaking hands, laughing with fans, posing for pictures with kids in Snow Leopards jerseys.
I float between groups, accepting compliments on the pastries, chatting with regulars from the bakery, and introducing myself to people I’ve only ever seen from behind my counter.
But no matter where I go, I feel him.
Our eyes keep finding each other across the room, and watching him like this, I’m slammed with the memory of something I wrote in that notebook. The pages where I’d scribbled ‘needs a partner’ next to every sketch for a second location, some of them stained by a tear that fell when Daniel left me.