Chapter 20
Zoey
Iknead the dough on the counter with a little too much aggression, my palms pressing, folding, pushing with a force that has nothing to do with gluten development and everything to do with the envelope propped against the flour canister.
Three hours ago, I was standing in an executive box overlooking the rink, holding this same envelope while Colt's agent offered him a life in New York.
We stood there for what felt like forever after he hung up, the two of us frozen in that ridiculous, beautiful suite while the bright lights hummed below and neither of us knew what to say.
Eventually, I told him I needed to get back.
That Morgan was home. That I had baking to do.
All of it true, but none of it the real reason.
The real reason was that if I stayed in that room one more second, looking at his face while he processed the biggest opportunity of his career, I was going to beg him not to take it.
And I refuse to be the woman who asks a man to shrink his life to fit inside hers. I've been that woman before. She doesn't survive it.
So I kissed his cheek, grabbed my coat, and walked out of The Den like my heart wasn't actively hemorrhaging in my chest.
The investor group requests…
I read the first line again, then look away.
I've read the damn thing that many times the words are starting to blur into a smear of legal ink and impossible promises.
Already around me, my kitchen is a temple of warmth and chaos. The ovens are still running, radiating a dry heat that's not helping the dryness in my throat.
Over on the bench, I've set out racks upon racks of cooling cardamom twists. I've baked so many this afternoon, they line the entire back wall, their buttery, spiced scent taking over the entire street.
This is what won. A beautiful creation that, once upon a time, I was proud and excited about sharing.
Now…
It feels like this is what’s pulling my life out from under me.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaks. Morgan is supposedly doing her homework, but I know without my constant supervision, she's probably just practicing her 'commentator voice' with her stuffed animals again.
I sent her up an hour ago with a plate of rejected twists for dinner. She didn’t complain, she just took the plate and gave me a look that saw right through my I’m fine, sweetie smile.
The bell above the bakery door jingles.
I don’t look up. “We’re closed.”
“It’s me.”
I glance through the kitchen door opening, and see Declan pulling off his heavy wool coat. He shakes off a dusting of snow that's caught in the fabric, scattering tiny flecks of snow across my floor like he's brought the storm inside with him.
“You lose your hotel key?” I ask, turning back to the dough as he steps into the kitchen.
He slides a stool into the kitchen and sets himself up on the opposite side of the counter. I keep working the dough, unable to look at him.
“You okay?” he asks finally. "We ran into Lane at The Lounge. Everyone is talking about his offer. That and… your news."
I bark out a laugh, rolling my eyes and slamming a fist into the dough. "Oh really?"
Declan's hand shoots across the counter, his fingers closing around my wrists with a firmness that stops me mid-knead.
"Hey." His voice drops lower, softer. Not the intense tone I'm used to from him. "I asked if you were okay."
I finally drag my gaze up to meet his, and the intensity in those protective eyes nearly undoes me.
“What do you think, Dec? My bakery might become a national franchise. The man I’m sleeping with might move to New York.
And my daughter’s homework is probably covered in frosting because I’ve been too busy having a midlife crisis to even bother being a half-decent mother anymore.
" I shove the dough away and it slumps in defeat.
"And I think I just murdered this dough. So yeah. I'm great.”
I wipe my hands on my apron, leaving ghostly-white flour prints on the linen.
Declan’s gaze drops to the envelope and he reaches for it, unfolding the pages and reading what should be the best thing to ever happen to me.
“They want you to move.”
“They want headquarters and full relocation of bakery operations,” I correct, my voice too sharp. “It’s a condition. Pending a successful partnership.” I grab a dish towel, twist it between my hands. “It’s everything I wrote in that damn notebook, Dec. Everything I wanted before…”
“Before life happened.”
“Before Morgan.” The words are automatic.
True, but they taste like guilt. “I’ve spent eight years making sure her world was solid.
I put her first in every single decision I've made since the day she was born. And now…” I gesture wildly at the envelope.
“Now I’m thinking about uprooting her for…
for what? A bigger kitchen? A fancier title? ”
“Zo.”
“Not to mention that I feel like I’ve abandoned her these past few weeks,” I whisper, the confession tearing out of me. “Running around with Colt, the salon, the games, the… the sex. God. She ate cereal for dinner twice last week because I was too busy. Cereal.”
Declan slides the envelope aside. “Morgan’s fine, sis. She’s literally the happiest kid I’ve ever met.”
“But I just feel—” My throat closes and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “Everything is changing again, Declan. Just when I thought I had it all figured out, just when I thought I might finally get a chance to have—”
I stop myself short of saying everything I've ever wanted. Because thinking it and saying it out loud are two completely different things.
"So what about Colt's offer then?" Declan asks carefully, like he's tiptoeing around a sleeping bear.
"The guys at The Lounge are all pumped for him.
Silas can't believe he isn't on the next plane out of here already, contract signed, bags packed, the whole nine yards.
" Declan's fingers find my chin, tilting it up until I have no choice but to look at him.
"But, Zo… how do you feel about him going? "
I swallow hard. "He hasn't said yes."
"He hasn't said no either." Declan's eyebrow lifts in that infuriating brotherly way. "Has he talked to you about it?"
"Not really. We gave each other some space to think. Why would he anyway?" I grab the dough again, just to have something to do with my hands. "We've been… whatever we've been for, what, a few weeks? It's not like I get a vote on his career."
"Zoey."
I let out a breath that's half laugh, half something wetter.
"He'd be stupid not to take it, Dec. It's New York. A team that actually has a shot this year." I press my thumb into the dough, leaving a perfect little crater. "He'd be stupid to stay here for…"
Me.
The confession hangs in the air, totally unspoken, but Declan hears it anyway.
His dark eyes, so like mine, just study me. “What do you want, Zoey?”
My gaze darts around my kitchen, to the brick oven, the hanging pots, the shelf above the mixer when I hid that fucking notebook.
This is my kingdom. This is my safety.
“I want…” I start, then shake my head. “I don’t know what I want.
Because every want gets filtered through Morgan.
Through the bakery. Through… surviving. Ever since Daniel left, I don’t have a want button.
I'm a single mom just trying to get by, so all I get is a need-to-keep-the-lights-on button.”
Declan sighs, a long, weary sound. “You spent your whole childhood taking care of us. You gave up everything so we could have everything.”
“I didn’t mind,” I say automatically.
“I know you didn’t. That’s the problem.” He meets my eyes, and for the first time all night, I see past the tough-guy exterior to the little brother I used to bandage up after street hockey games. “But you know what you never did, Zo? You never asked if that’s what you wanted.”
My eyes burn. I look away, focusing on the twisted dish towel in my hands.
“You know who does ask? You know who has allowed you to dream again?” Declan continues, his voice softening. “Colt fucking Lane.”
A tear escapes. Because it's true.
“He’s the first guy who's actually seen you what you want. And yeah, I gave him shit the other night. Because it’s my job.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But Zo… that man isn’t your ex-husband. And you’re not the girl who got left behind anymore. Stop acting like you are.”
The bell jingles again, and both of us turn to peer through the doorway.
Colt stands in dark bakery entrance, haloed by the soft glow of the Main Street lampposts behind him.
He looks… wrecked. His hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it for hours. His bright blue eyes are shadowed, intense, fixed on me.
He sees Declan and stops. Something passes between them—a look, an understanding. Declan gives me a single nod, then he stands, brushes past Colt with a quiet, “She’s all yours,” and walks out into the night, pulling his coat around him.
The bakery feels suddenly huge and too small all at once.
The scent of cardamom and yeast is suffocating, but underneath it, I catch the clean bite of his cologne.
It’s the same scent that clung to the sheets this morning, when I woke up alone but still somehow felt his presence.
The same scent that’s been living in my lungs since the night he kissed me in this very kitchen.
He moves into the kitchen, and my body remembers the heat of his palm on my hip, the rough scrape of his stubble against my inner thigh, the solid weight of him pinning me to his sofa.
My skin prickles with the memory, a flush of pure, traitorous heat spreading under my apron, but somehow, I stay where I am behind the counter.
"Word on the street is you've been drowning your sorrows at The Leopard Lounge like some tragic country song," I say, crossing my arms.
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, not even bothering to deny it. "Turns out Lars' whiskey doesn't have any answers for me either."
“Still haven't figured out our little situation then?”
“Nope."