Chapter 14 Zoey #3
"Of course he did."
Colt reaches my side, his hand finding my back. He nods to my brothers, suddenly very respectful. “Mason. Beck. Declan. Glad you could make it.”
Declan studies him for a long, silent second. The room chatter continues around us, but in our little circle, the air is… charged.
Of course it’s charged. My brothers have spent my entire life in varying states of overprotective, and here’s the man who’s been making me smile again. The same man they’re currently measuring for a suit of armor he’ll never quite fill to their standards.
Then Declan extends a hand. “Appreciate the invite, Lane.”
They shake. It’s firm and way too macho, but it’s a start.
Morgan wriggles out of Declan’s arms and grabs Colt’s hand. “Can I show Uncle Mason the chocolate fountain? Please? He’s never seen a real one!”
Colt laughs. “Go for it, kid. Just don’t let him fall in.”
The tension breaks as Mason lets Morgan drag him toward the chocolate waterfall, Beck following with an exaggerated eye-roll that reminds me of when I had to force him to eat his vegetables.
Declan lingers a moment longer, his gaze flicking between Colt and me.
“Guess we’ll talk tomorrow,” he says to me, then claps Colt on the shoulder a little harder than necessary. “Good speech, Lane.”
He moves toward the bar where Samuel and Cade are already waving him over like hockey royalty.
I turn to Colt, my eyes stinging. “You flew my brothers here? That's the big surprise you've been planning?”
He shrugs, but his smile is soft. "Page thirty-six of the notebook, Morrison. And I quote—'I cannot do this alone. I need an army, a miracle, and possibly a tranquilizer dart for myself.'"
I shove him playfully. "Stop memorizing my notebook!"
"I skimmed it," he says, smirking. "Once.
Maybe twice. Okay, I might have it bookmarked.
But that's not the point." He reaches up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering against my skin.
"The point is, you knew. You knew you needed your people, Zo.
Not just me, not just the girls, not just the entire town of Chilmore. "
He smiles again and moves in closer.
“You should have your family here, Zo. This is your night. They should see it.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, right there in the middle of the room, with half the town watching and my brothers probably judging his technique.
I don’t care.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his lips.
“Anytime, Morrison.” He brushes a curl from my cheek. “You're so close to those dreams, and I'm not about to let you give up. This is just the next step.”
The rest of the evening passes in a warm, chaotic blur.
The whole event is a smash. People rave about the pastries. My brothers devour the brownie platter while telling exaggerated stories of my childhood baking disasters.
Morgan falls asleep on a pile of coats in a corner, a half-eaten brownie still clutched in her hand, her head pillowed on Declan’s jacket.
Finally, the crowd begins to thin.
Avery volunteers to take a sleepy Morgan home for me, giving me a knowing look as she herds my daughter away. My brothers head to the hotel Colt booked them, with promises of breakfast tomorrow at the bakery.
Colt and I are among the last to leave, and pretty soon, we stand in the now-quiet event space, surrounded by the remains of the party.
Colt shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s warm and smells like him.
"So," he says, turning me to face him. "Which one do you think is going to win?"
He nods toward the overflowing voting box on the table behind us, ballots spilling over the sides. Even from here, I can see Morgan's handwriting on at least a dozen of them.
"Hmm. Tough call." I tap my chin. "The Cardamon Twist has a certain rugged charm. But the Sea Salt Brownie has range. It's versatile. Salty and a little dangerous."
"Sounds like someone I know."
"Don't flatter yourself, Lane."
"Wasn't talking about me." His grin tilts wicked. "I meant you."
"Mm-hmm." I loop my arms around his neck, the sleeves of his jacket sliding down my wrists. "And what's your professional, ambassadorial opinion?"
"Professionally?" He pretends to weigh it, his head tipping side to side. "I think it's a tie."
"That's a cop-out answer."
"That's a diplomatic answer." He leans in, his nose brushing mine. "Personally? I think the twists are going to crush the competition."
"You're biased."
"Wildly." His voice drops, low, warm and delicious. "I'm biased about everything that has anything to do with you, Morrison. Get used to it."
I rise on my toes and kiss him. It’s soft, sweet, a promise.
He deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, and suddenly it’s not soft anymore.
It’s hungry. Possessive. His hands slide down to grip my ass through the silk of my dress, pulling me flush against him.
I can feel every hard inch of him, and a bolt of pure, liquid heat shoots straight to my core.
He breaks the kiss, breathing ragged. “Let’s get out of here.”