Chapter 8 Zoey #2
"Zoey!" Delaney's voice cuts through the kitchen, and we both flinch. She's appeared in the serving window, tablet raised like her patience is wearing. "Cmoe on. Let's talk business."
I move out to the front counter, putting the display case between me and whatever is happening to my nervous system.
For whatever reason, Colt follows. He leans against the opposite side with his arms crossed, close enough that I can smell him. That clean, citrus cologne mixed with something warmer underneath.
Focus, Zoey. This is business.
"Big Mike and I have been talking," Delaney begins, scrolling through her tablet. "The partnership content from the photo shoot is performing beautifully online. The photos of you two have the highest engagement of any Snow Leopards social post this season. They look amazing, by the way."
Colt winks across at me, and my thighs press together under the apron.
Delaney continues talking between us.
"So we want to take it further. Here's what we're proposing: Butter Batch creates a signature treat. Something exclusive to The Leopard Den. Sold only at the arena, only on game nights."
I blink. "A signature treat?"
"Think about it." Delaney sets the tablet down and meets my eyes.
"Twelve thousand fans a game. Your brand stamped on every box, every napkin, every social media post. This would put Butter Batch in front of an audience you could never reach from Main Street alone.
If that isn't Community Engagement, I don't know what is, baby. "
My chest goes tight.
Because she's describing something I've dreamed about. Something I wrote about, years ago.
A signature product. Brand expansion beyond the storefront.
It's eerily close to a bullet point plan I had in my notebook.
"We're also hosting a party at the arena next week," Delaney continues. "VIP event for sponsors, local partners, community leaders. It would be the perfect opportunity to debut the recipe."
I grip the edge of the counter, steadying myself.
"That's… a lot, Delaney."
She tilts her head, and those icy-blue eyes soften just enough to feel genuine. "You've built something special here, Zoey. The idea of this program is to help you share it with more people."
Behind me, I can hear Colt shifting his weight. He hasn't said a word, which is so unlike him that I almost turn around to check if he's still breathing.
"I need to think about it," I say carefully. "The logistics alone… scaling a recipe for arena quantities, sourcing ingredients in bulk, packaging, timing around game schedules... It's not something I can just whip up overnight."
"But you've thought about it before, right?" Colt's voice cuts through, steady and certain.
My head whips toward him. "What?"
He shrugs, casual as anything. "Bulk sourcing. Packaging your creations at scale. You've already done the math."
My pulse stutters.
"How," I whisper, "would you know that?"
But Delaney stands, tucking her tablet under her arm as I study Colt's sheepish expression before turning my attention back to her.
"Of course she has. You'll be fine." She pauses at the door. "And Zoey? Don't forget you've got a strong hockey player standing right behind you, willing to help." She leans in and whispers, "And I hear he's pretty good with his hands."
The bell chimes as she sweeps out into the cold Chilmore morning, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and unsettling wisdom in her wake.
The bakery goes quiet.
I turn around slowly.
Colt's still leaning against the counter, but the playful energy from earlier has shifted into something quieter. More deliberate.
"So," I say. "A signature treat for The Leopard Den."
"Pretty cool, right?" He pushes off the counter and moves toward me. "You'll create something amazing, I know it."
I hold his gaze, my heart hammering.
"How are you so sure?" I tilt my head, studying him. "You've been here a week, Colt. But you talk like you've read my entire business plan over my shoulder."
He looks down at his feet, hiding his eyes so I can't study them.
"You make magic every morning, Zoey," he says. "Scaling that? Easy."
But something in his eyes says he knows more.
Say something sharp. Something that puts distance between you.
Something that reminds him—and yourself—that this is just business.
But my mouth doesn't cooperate.
Because now we're alone, all I can think about is yesterday, when his lips on mine, and the fact that his hands felt like they could pin me anywhere he wanted.
"So." Colt's mouth curves into that familiar grin, and he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two rectangular pieces of card stock.
He holds them up between his fingers, watching my face.
"I was going to give you these yesterday.
Before you, uh..." He clears his throat. "Before your lips distracted me."
"Shut up." I swat his arm. "Morgan will hear you."
He laughs, catching my wrist gently. My skin heats instantly as he presses two Snow Leopards tickets into my palm. Saturday's game against Seattle.
Seats behind the home bench.
"Colt… what's this?"
"Now before you say no—" He holds up a hand. "Willa cleared me yesterday. Light skating. Non-contact drills. I'll be back on the ice next week, which probably means I won't be around the bakery as much."
My stomach drops.
He won't be around as much.
"I know you'll miss me terribly," he adds, and there's that grin again. "So I figured the least I could do is show you my world. The way you've shown me yours."
I stare at the tickets. My thumb traces the embossed Snow Leopards logo, the seat numbers, the gold foil accents that shine in the light.
He's inviting me in. Into the thing that matters most to him.
The same way I let him into my bakery. Into my kitchen. Into my mornings with Morgan.
And the voice in the back of my head whispers be careful.
Because Morgan's question from two nights ago is still echoing in my skull.
Will he still come around? After this is over, will he stay?
"Colt, I think it's great your recovery is progressing… but I don't know if this is such a good idea."
I wave the tickets between us.
"Don't overthink it, Morrison." His voice goes quiet, and those blue eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my knees soften. "Just come watch some hockey. No strings."
But before I can say anything more, Morgan barrels down the stairs in sparkly sneakers I've told her she absolutely cannot wear to school.
"IS THAT COLT'S CAR OUTSIDE?! MOM! IS COLT HERE?!"
She rounds the counter at full speed and skids to a stop between us, eyes darting from me to Colt and back again.
Then she spots the tickets in my hand.
And her jaw drops.
"Are those—" She snatches them from my fingers before I can hide them, holding them up to the light like a jeweler inspecting diamonds. "HOCKEY TICKETS?! BEHIND THE BENCH?! SATURDAY?!"
"Hey, Morgs." Colt drops into a crouch, eye level with her, that easy grin spreading across his face. "How do you feel about watching the Snow Leopards crush Seattle this weekend?"
The sound Morgan makes is not human. It's a pitch so high and sustained that I'm fairly certain dogs three streets over are losing their minds.
"OH MY GOD! MOM! MOM! WE'RE GOING TO A GAME! A REAL GAME! BEHIND THE BENCH! I CAN SEE THE PLAYERS! I CAN SEE SAMUEL VOSS! I'M GOING TO brING MY LUNCHBOX AND GET EVERYONE TO SIGN IT! CAN I WEAR MY JERSEY? CAN I MAKE A SIGN? CAN I—"
"Morgan." I try to sound calm. "Morgan, breathe, honey."
She doesn't breathe. She launches herself at Colt instead, wrapping her arms around his neck with enough force to nearly topple a giant professional athlete.
But of course, he catches her easily, laughing as he straightens up with my daughter hanging off him like a clingy koala.
"I'll take that as a yes," he says, and his eyes find mine over Morgan's shoulder.
And in that look I see everything he's not saying.
I know you're scared, but I'm not going anywhere.
Morgan pulls back, gripping Colt's shoulders, her face barely six inches from his.
"Lane. This is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. And I include the lunchbox. This is bigger than the lunchbox."
"Wow." Colt's eyebrows shoot up. "Bigger than the lunchbox? That's serious stuff, Morgs."
"Dead serious." She holds up a finger. "But I have one condition."
"Name it."
"You have to do the handshake with me on camera. So everyone can see how cool we are. I told my friends, but they don't believe me. We'll show them, though, right?"
Colt doesn't hesitate. "Right."
"MOM!" Morgan whips her head toward me, vibrating with a joy so intense it makes me wonder why that scorching impulse to pull back is even there at all. "Can we please go? Please, please, please?"
I look at my daughter. At the Snow Leopards tee she chose this morning without being asked.
And then I look at Colt.
He's watching me with that expression again. The one where his blue eyes go darker, softer, and every joke he's ever told falls away until there's nothing left but the man underneath.
The man who arranged a spa night because he noticed I was tired.
The man who learned a secret handshake and sat with my daughter until bedtime because nobody asked him to.
The man who kissed me yesterday like I was the first real thing he'd ever touched.
"Yeah, baby," I say, my voice catching in a way I hope only I can hear. "We can go."
Morgan's shriek could shatter every window on Main Street.
She launches into a full victory lap around the bakery, arms pumping, chanting "HUNT! CLAIM! STRIKE!" at a volume that will definitely generate noise complaints.
And over her head, Colt catches my eye one more time.
That grin. That infuriating, dimple-popping, heart-destroying grin.
He knows exactly what he just did.
And the worst part?
So do I.
He took the next step.