Chapter 4 Zoey
Zoey
"Ow, Mom. Ow."
"I said hold still."
"I can't sit still while you're pulling my brain through my scalp!"
"Your brain is fine. Your hair, however, is – I said sit still!"
I work my fingers through another stubborn tangle, coaxing the strands into submission.
Morgan's perched on the kitchen stool, hunched over a bowl of cereal she's been 'eating' for twenty minutes.
Translation: she's been pushing Cheerios around like tiny life rafts while narrating an elaborate disaster scenario involving a sinking ship and an invisible heroic dolphin.
The apartment above Butter Batch is its usual morning chaos.
Morgan's school art projects are papering the fridge, a laundry basket I swore I'd fold two days ago is still sitting by the couch, and a stack of picture books remains on the coffee table from last night's bedtime negotiations.
I'm almost certain that somewhere under the clutter, there's a permission slip I need to sign and a library book that's definitely overdue.
But at least the braid is coming together. Finally.
"There." I secure the end with an elastic, then spin her around to inspect my work. "Cool enough for you?"
Morgan twists to catch her reflection in the microwave door, her face scrunching in concentration. She turns left and tilts her chin up like she's posing for an Instagram selfie.
"Mmmm… It's acceptable," she declares.
"High praise."
I glance at the clock on the wall. 6:40 AM. Twenty minutes until the bus arrives to collect my daughter. Twenty minutes until—
No. Don't think about it. Do not think about it.
"Homework in your bag?"
Morgan nods confidently, sliding off the stool. "Yep."
"Really?" I reach into the disaster zone and pull a crumpled worksheet that looks like it's been used as a napkin, a coaster, and possibly a tissue off the coffee table. "So this is... what? A lost pirate's treasure map?"
Morgan snatches it from my hand, shoving it into her backpack with zero remorse.
"Wow. You're tense today." She studies me with way too much sass for a ten-year-old who wouldn't sleep in her own bed last night. "Still thinking about The Help?"
"Morgan!" I cut her a glare. "We don't call people 'The Help.' That's rude."
"Fine." She zips her backpack with a dramatic flourish. "Still thinking about Ambassador Muffin Man?"
I choke on my coffee.
"I'm not—" I start, then stop, because my daughter is grinning at me with way too much confidence.
Seriously. You raise your kids to be strong and independent, and this is what you get.
"I'm not thinking about anyone. I'm thinking about the bakery.
And your homework. And whether you remembered to brush your teeth. "
"I did."
"With toothpaste?"
The guilty flicker in her eyes tells me everything.
"Go. Now. You have two minutes."
She scampers off toward the bathroom, and I'm left alone with the ticking clock and the traitorous spiral of my own thoughts.
Today is just business.
That's what I told myself last night, lying awake at 2 AM.
This is a partnership. An opportunity pout together by Big Mike and the Snow Leopards. This is something that could possibly even be good for the bakery.
Good exposure, good foot traffic, good growth.
I shove that thought down so hard it probably has whiplash.
Because once upon a time, I had dreams too. Dreams bigger than a single storefront on Main Street in a tiny town like Chilmore.
I had a food blog once. A following. I had plans for expansion, franchises, maybe even a cookbook deal if I played my cards right.
Before my husband left me to fend for myself, I was going to be somebody. Not just the tired woman in the dirty apron who forgot to eat lunch again because there's nobody else to cover the counter.
But today will be okay.
I've handled difficult customers before. So I sure as hell can handle one overgrown hockey player.
I grab Morgan's jacket from the hook by the door, checking the pockets for contraband as she reappears, minty-fresh and victorious.
"So like… Is he going to be here every day now?"
"Who?"
"The ambassador man!" Morgan rolls her eyes, as she grabs her jacket and shoves her arms through the sleeves. "I hope he's nice."
"He's just here to... help. With the bakery."
Morgan's grin sharpens. "So he is The Help."
"Morgan."
"Ambassador Help?"
"Get. Your. Shoes. On."
She cackles and I wonder, not for the first time, if I'm raising a daughter or a tiny supervillain.
I grab her backpack, my coffee, and herd us both toward the stairs that lead down to the bakery. The scent of the fresh bread I threw in the oven before Morgan woke up wraps around us as we descend.
"The school bus will be here in eight minutes," I tell Morgan. "I just have to get these muffins—"
The bell above the door chimes and I freeze mid-sentence.
"Mom! He's early."
Colt Lane, in all his muscular glory, is standing in my bakery at six-forty-something in the morning, wearing a Snow Leopards tracksuit that has no business looking that good on anyone.
The fading bruise around his eye has mellowed even more since yesterday, and his sandy blonde hair is styled already. Did he really wake up early to style his hair like that?!
"OH MY GOD."
Morgan's shriek from behind me is loud enough to wake the dead, the neighbors, and probably half of Chilmore.
"Mom. MOM." Her fingers dig into my arm with the grip strength of a professional wrestler. "The Help is the dude from the billboard at the airport! The giant Snow Leopard's one!"
I open my mouth to correct her, but Colt's grin stops me. He gives Morgan a little salute, and unfortunately for me, he's completely unbothered by being referred to as 'The Help.'
"You don't remember me?"
He tilts his head to Morgan, those bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Oh God. He should not be allowed to look this good at six in the morning.
"The tattoo guy? You were there, right? We shared a pizza at the hospital when your beautiful mommy came to visit me."
Beautiful mommy?! I need some water.
He extends his hand toward Morgan like he's greeting foreign royalty. "Colt Lane. Nice to meet you officially, kid."
Morgan doesn't shake his hand.
She fucking vibrates.
"Can you sign something?" The words tumble out of her in a breathless rush. "Can you sign my—" She looks around wildly, then swings her backpack off her shoulder and starts unpacking everything I spent all morning shoving in there. "SIGN MY LUNCHBOX!"
She yanks it free and thrusts it at him, eyes wider than the time I accidentally let slip that her birthday present was a pair of VIP Snow Leopards tickets.
Colt, to his credit, doesn't miss a beat. He produces a Sharpie from his jacket pocket like he was born for this exact moment, uncaps it with his teeth, and signs the plastic lid with a easy swish of his wrist.
"One autographed lunchbox, coming up."
I watch this exchange with a mixture of horror and reluctant amusement. My daughter is going to be absolutely insufferable now. I can already hear the playground bragging.
Thankfully, the school bus honks outside and I hustle Morgan away from her new hero.
"That's your ride." I grab Morgan by the shoulders and steer her toward the door. "Go. Now. And don't run in the parking lot when you go straight to class!"
"BYE COLT!" Morgan clutches her lunchbox to her chest like it contains the Holy Grail. "SEE YOU AFTER SCHOOL!"
She's halfway out the door before she spins around, eyes huge.
"OH MY GOD, MOM! THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!"
She sprints toward the bus, waving her signed lunchbox so every set of eyes on the loaded bus can see it.
"Yeah, bye darling," I call after her. "I'll miss you too. Love you more than life itself. Don't worry about your mother, standing here, abandoned—"
The bus doors close on my performance, and I'm left standing in the sudden silence of my bakery with Colt Lane leaning against the window frame, still beaming.
"Cute kid."
I exhale slowly through my nose. "You can have her if you want. I'm telling you, she's hard work."
He laughs a deep chuckle that does absolutely nothing to my stomach. Nothing at all.
"So." He pushes off the wall, rolling his shoulders like he's about to step onto the ice. "Where do you want me, boss?"
I give him a pointed look, but my traitorous eyes have other ideas.
They drift down the length of him to the broad shoulders filling out that ridiculous Snow Leopards tracksuit.
My brain helpfully supplies the fact that we are now completely alone in this bakery, Morgan is safely on a bus headed to school, and there is a perfectly good bed upstairs that hasn't seen any action besides my sad, silent solo sessions in approximately twenty-seven months.
I wrench my gaze away, cheeks flushing hot enough to rival my ovens.
"Don't call me that." I gesture vaguely toward the back. "There are trays ready for the display case. Start bringing them out and I'll show you how to present everything. Carefully."
"Got it." He nods, all confidence and easy charm. "Careful is my middle name."
"I somehow doubt that."
He winks, and disappears into the back kitchen. I watch him go, which is a mistake.
Because a tracksuit should not look that good on anyone. It's deep purple with silver accents and the Snow Leopards logo emblazoned across the back. But the way it drapes over his shoulders, tapers at his waist, and then...
Oh, for the love of all things holy.
His ass.
I'm staring at Colt Lane's ass as he walks into my kitchen.
And I cannot make myself stop.
It's tight and firm and moves with an athlete's easy grace, the fabric stretching just enough with each stride to hint at the muscle underneath. My fingers twitch against the door, and I have the sudden, horrifying thought of what it would feel like to grab a handful.
No. Absolutely not.
I tear my eyes away, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead.
"Stop it, Zoey. Stop it."