Chapter 2 Zoey #2
"Mad?" Quinn's eyes narrow. "I'm not mad. I'm incomplete. You fled my chair before I could finish my masterpiece. Do you have any idea how aggravating it is for me to leave a piece unfinished?"
"In my defense, you were tattooing my ass."
"That's right! An ass that now has a stick figure of my boyfriend and his abnormally large dick on it!" Quinn gestures wildly. "Gabe's going to be so disappointed when he finds out his tribute portrait is missing its most anatomically generous features."
Their bickering continues, and Colt has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, which is a new expression on him.
"Can we not talk about this again?" Colt groans, running a hand through his hair. "Every time the nurses questioned me about the tattoo during my check-up appointments, I got very embarrassed."
"Hold on." I hold up a hand, a grin spreading across my face. "You had to show your ass to the nurses?"
"Multiple nurses," he confirms, his expression pained. "And a very concerned neurologist who wanted to make sure the tattoo wasn't a symptom of my head injury. I'm pretty sure he just wanted to make fun of me, though."
Quinn cackles. "Please tell me you explained it was a bet."
"I tried! They didn't believe me. One of them asked if I needed a psych consult." Colt shakes his head. "Do you know how hard it is to explain to a medical professional why you have a half-finished drawing of your teammate's junk on your left cheek?"
"To be fair," I say, biting back a laugh, "that is pretty concerning behavior."
"It was a bet," he protests. "A sacred bet."
"Well, who's fault is that?" Quinn huffs. "You lost the bet. I won the privilege of tattooing whatever I wanted on you. It's not my fault you panicked halfway through and ran away like a little bitch before I could finish the—" she makes air quotes—"Devereaux's Secret Weapon label."
"I didn't panic." Colt crosses his arms. "My teammates helped me make a strategic retreat. It's called camaraderie."
"You literally sprinted out of my shop with your pants around your ankles."
"Strategic. Retreat."
I'm trying very hard not to laugh, but my composure is hanging by a thread. This is the most ridiculous conversation I've had in months, and somehow, it's also the most alive I've felt.
Growing up with three younger brothers, bickering was basically our love language. Mason, Declan, and Beck would argue about everything… who got the last slice of pizza, whose turn it was to shovel the driveway, whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich.
I'd referee from the kitchen counter, rolling my eyes while secretly loving every chaotic second of it.
When did I stop having conversations that weren't about inventory, or Morgan's homework, or whether we could afford the electric bill this month?
When did talking become just another item on my to-do list?
"Quinn." Colt fixes her with a look. "As much as I appreciate your dedication to your craft, I'm not here for tattoo negotiations."
"Then why are you here?" I ask, and those incredibly blue eyes drift back to me.
And when they do, the teasing energy shifts into something else.
Colt looks down to his sneakers, and I watch as he twists them nervously on my bakery floor.
"I dunno. Just needed another muffin. The blueberry one this morning was..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Distracting."
"Distracting," I repeat flatly.
"Yeah. In a good way."
Colt's blue eyes form a shadow that doesn't belong on a face built for charm. I've never seen him look so—
"Oh my God. He's vulnerable!" Quinn slides down off the counter, her eyes wide with excitement. "Quick, Zoey—snatch him! I need to finish that tattoo before he escapes again!"
"Nobody's snatching anyone," I say firmly, even as my traitorous body is doing very interested things at the thought of seeing Colt's firm ass in that tattoo chair again.
Oh God. Don't think about him in that tattoo chair again.
But I can't help it.
It's been two years since anyone touched me.
Two years since I felt another person's hands on my skin.
Two years of raising Morgan alone, running this bakery alone, lying in bed alone while my vibrator gathered dust in the nightstand drawer because I'm always too fucking exhausted to even think about pleasure.
And now Colt Lane is standing in my bakery, looking at me like that, and my body has apparently decided to remind me that I'm still a woman with needs.
I study his face, because underneath his usual easy smile and the flirty banter, there's something… wrong.
This morning at the stadium, he was practically bouncing off the walls. He was his usual confident and cocky self. Certain he was about to get cleared to play.
But now?
"Colt." I lower my voice, stepping closer to the counter. "Did something happen at your medical?"
His throat tightens, and those blue eyes flick toward Quinn.
He clears his throat. "Um, maybe a muffin first?"
"Okay."
I clear my throat, trying not to think about him laying in that hospital bed again. We'd only been talking for a few weeks before it happened, but deep down, I know I had been enjoying the attention he was giving me. Even if I wouldn't allow myself to think it.
"Another muffin and—"
"And whatever else you recommend. I'm in a..." He trails off, and that same flash of vulnerability flickers across his face. "I'm in a… complicated mood."
Quinn pushes off the counter, grabbing her jacket. "Alright. That's my cue to leave you two to your complicated moods." She waggles her eyebrows at me. "I've got an appointment to get to. Text me later, babe. I want details."
I look at Colt, then back to Quinn.
"Um, babe… I don't think I'll be sharing any details…"
"There's always details!" She's already at the door, the bell chiming as she pushes it open. "And Lane? Don't think I've forgotten about that tattoo! Your ass is mine, hockey boy!"
The door swings shut behind her, and suddenly it's just me and Colt in the quiet of my bakery.
The ovens hum softly in the back, and morning sunshine is now happily streaming through the windows, reflecting the gold trim on the display case I installed myself when Morgan was strapped to my chest.
But the man across from me…