Chapter 18 Zoey
Zoey
Iwake up warm and satisfied for the first time in years.
Then I open my eyes… and the other side of the bed is empty.
"Colt?" I bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs. The sheets are rumpled, still holding the shape of his body, but they’re cool to the touch.
He’s gone.
The thought is a cold splash of reality. I scramble out of bed, grabbing the first thing I see on the floor. Colt’s purple Snow Leopards hoodie. I pull it on as I slide out of bed and tread barefoot into the living room.
It's empty.
Did he even kiss me goodbye?
A hot, vivid flashback of last night detonates behind my eyes.
The dinner. The lingerie. The sex.
Jesus Christ, the sex.
The memory of his mouth on me makes my thighs clench right here in the middle of the hallway. I can still feel the scrape of his stubble against my inner thigh, the sinful, slow worship and slick heat of his tongue circling every private inch of me.
He’d made me come three times before he even took his pants off.
Three times!
And my God, for the first time in eight years, I’d been loud. I’d screamed. I’d begged. I’d come so hard, my body was convulsing around him as he drove into me over and over.
I yank the hoodie tighter, already rehearsing the angry voicemail I’m going to leave him. Seriously… the only evidence I didn't imagine last night even happened is the two wine glasses we left on the coffee table last night.
But then, I grab my phone off the kitchen counter, and my stomach drops when I see the time on the screen.
"OH SHIT!" I scream loudly, spinning around so fast I nearly trip over my own two feet like a baby giraffe on roller skates. "MORGAN! MY BAKERY! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!"
I’m out of the apartment in under sixty seconds, still in Colt’s hoodie and the leggings I wore over here last night. My hair is a wild mess and I didn't even bother putting my shoes on, just socks as I take the stairs two at a time, bursting out into the crisp Chilmore morning.
The sun is already high, glinting off the snow-dusted peaks.
Fuck.
Main Street is already coming to life. Harold is outside Frost Café, sweeping the sidewalk, and he gives me a knowing wave as I sprint past.
“Late start, Zoey?”
“Shut up Harold!” I yell over my shoulder, my socks soaking through with icy slush.
I pass the dark windows of Quinn’s Empty Needle & Ink, my breath puffing white in the air.
My heart is pounding for two reasons now: the fear that Colt just… left, and the sheer, utter terror that I’ve abandoned my child and my business, all in one night.
One deeply sensual and erotic night.
"Shut up!" I growl at myself, determined not to let memories of Colt's magic tongue distract me from the crisis at hand.
I barrel through the door of Butter Batch, the bell jangling violently. My lungs burn, but I brace myself against the doorframe, expecting chaos… a line of furious customers, a burnt-smelling disaster, my precious sourdough starters ruined for all eternity.
Instead, the display cases are… full.
They've been loaded with neat rows of chocolate croissants, blueberry muffins and raspberry tarts that glisten under the lights. The air smells of fresh coffee and warm, buttery pastry.
All of it is perfectly arranged, exactly how I like it.
And sitting at the counter, swinging her legs and coloring in a notebook, is Morgan.
She looks up, her smile soothing my chest slightly. “Mom. Why are you wearing socks as shoes?”
“Morgan. What—how—” I blink, breathing hard as I scour the place.
“Colt was here,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He said you were tired and needed to sleep in. Why did you sleep at his house? Is it nice? I bet his TV is huge."
Colt's naked body hovers in my mind, but I manage to shake my head and get rid of the image, somehow finding a way to resume my role as concerned mother.
"Um, yeah, it's nice," I say carefully. "Um, sweetie, where is Colt now?"
"He's gone. He just helped us open and left me in charge."
I stare at her. “Us? Who's us?”
“Me and your brothers, Mom.” She rolls her eyes and hops off the stool, skipping over to me and holding up her notebook. “Look. I drew a picture of the twisty thing you made. Lane said it would make a good logo if we ever needed one.”
The drawing is a surprisingly detailed cardamom-butter twist, with little hearts around it.
I finally feel my breath start to even out.
"Well done, baby. So… where is Colt now? And did you say your uncles are here?”
“Colt had practice. He said to tell you he’ll see you later.” She studies my face. “You look weird. Did you sleep in your clothes?”
“Um, yeah, sure,” I murmur, looking down at my crinkled wet outfit.
I can't exactly tell her I slept naked beside her new hero, can I?
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay. Lane’s really good at the cash register. He only messed up once.”
I laugh, a wobbly, relieved sound. Of course he didn’t just leave me this morning, cold and alone in his bed.
He came here.
He opened my bakery and took care of my kid.
I’m an idiot.
The bell jingles again, and my three brothers tumble through the door like a herd of very large, very loud bears.
“Ah! There she is!” Mason booms, sweeping Morgan into a bear hug that makes her squeal. “The sleeping beauty has arrived!”
Beck grins, snagging a cinnamon roll from the case. “We heard you had a late night.”
Declan leans against the counter, arms crossed, his gaze scanning me from head to toe. The oversized hoodie, the sleep-tangled hair, the socks that are definitely not shoes.
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face.
“Rough night, Zee?”
“I slept in,” I say, not looking directly at him.
I busy myself straightening the already-straight rows of chocolate croissants in the display case, adjusting them by millimeters that don't need adjusting, because looking at my brothers right now feels like staring directly into the sun.
“Uh-huh.” Beck snags another cinnamon roll, leaning his hip against the display case. “We noticed. Lane mentioned you were… recuperating.”
My fingers still on the glass. “Oh, did he just…”
“Yes. He was very diplomatic about it,” Mason says, releasing Morgan so she can scamper back to her coloring. He folds his massive arms, mimicking Declan’s brotherly posture. “Said you needed the rest. Didn’t specify why you needed it at his place.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“It’s not—it was late. It made sense for me to stay there, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Declan repeats. The playful glint in his eyes has faded, replaced by something more assessing.
“Does it also make sense for this guy to show up here at five-thirty in the morning with a key to your bakery, knowing your recipes by heart, and teaching Morgs how to work the espresso machine?”
“He didn’t teach me,” Morgan calls from her stool, not looking up from her drawing. “I taught him. He kept pressing the wrong button.”
“See?” I gesture toward her, as if that proves everything. “It was a team effort. You were here. You helped. Now shut up.”
“We did help,” Beck agrees, ignoring my plea for silence and popping the last of the roll into his mouth. “But we also saw the way he kept looking at the door. Waiting for you. It was kinda pathetic, actually. Like a puppy dog who lost his favorite ball.”
“He was not pathetic,” Morgan defends, finally glancing over. “He was concerned. It’s called being a gentleman.”
The three of them share a look that speaks volumes. A silent, brotherly conversation conducted entirely in raised eyebrows and slight head tilts. It's a language they've spoken fluently since childhood, and right now, it's saying very loud things about me.
“He’s good with her,” Mason says, his tone conceding the point but laced with caution.
“That's right. He is,” I admit softly, because it’s true and it’s the part that terrifies me most.
I've spent years protecting Morgan.
Every decision, every choice, every sacrifice… it's all been about keeping her safe from disappointment. From abandonment. From men who promise the world and then vanish without a trace.
But Colt Lane walked right through those walls I built around her like they were made of tissue paper.
And the worst part? Morgan held the door open for him.
“Zoey, let me ask. Is he as good with you as he is with her?” Declan asks, pushing off the counter to take a step closer.
“Because, Zee, what we saw this morning wasn’t just a hockey pro fulfilling a sponsorship duty.
That was a man in your kitchen, wearing your apron, making your daughter laugh. That’s…”
“… part of the partnership,” I insist. “He’s the ambassador. He’s supposed to help.”
“Ambassadors don’t usually have sleepovers,” Beck points out.
Ambassadors also don’t worship you with a mouth so devastatingly patient you forget how to breathe.
“It’s none of your business,” I snap, cutting each of them a glare. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
Morgan slides off her stool and skips over to me, slipping her small hand into mine. She looks up, her hazel-green eyes serious. “I think he’s nice, Mom.”
I squeeze her fingers, my throat tight. “I know, baby.”
Thankfully, my phone buzzes on the counter and Delaney’s name flashes on the screen.
I swipe to answer as Declan, Beck and Mason huddle together by the front window, presumably to continue their Colt conspiracies.
“Hey, Del. What's up?”
“Zoey. Perfect. Are you at the bakery?”
“Yeah, just got here.”
“Great. I need you at The Den. Now.”
My stomach flutters. “Is everything okay?”
She laughs on the opposite end of the phone. “Oh yeah. Better than okay. The voting closed an hour ago, and babe, we have a winner. Big Mike wants to show you something.” Her voice is warm and excited. “Can you come?”
I glance at my brothers, at Morgan, at the bakery that’s already running without me. “Uh, yeah I guess. I can be there in twenty.”
“Perfect. Meet me at the main entrance. And Zoey? Wear something cute. There might be photos.”
She hangs up and I look across at my brothers.