Chapter 20 #2
He takes a few steps closer, stopping at the other side of the counter. The slab is between us, a battlefield of flour and abandoned dough. His eyes drop to the envelope.
“You read it all?” he asks.
“Enough.”
“And?”
“It's pretty clear, Colt. They want relocation for headquarters. If this goes through… I’d have to move.”
He spreads his hands, a gesture of helpless frustration.
“You know what I kept thinking, while I was sitting there and everyone was telling me to take the trade?" He puffs his cheeks through a sigh. "That if I wasn’t here, you’d already be on the phone with those investors.”
"That's not true—" I start, but he's already shaking his head.
"It is, though." He stifles a stiff laugh "I'm the complication here, Zoey. I showed up in your bakery and made everything messier. You already had the plan. You had your life figured out. And now you're standing here torn in half because of me."
He drags a hand through his hair, and I watch him swallow something that looks a lot like guilt. He closes his eyes for a second, and when they open, they’re so blue and so lost it’s like looking into a fucking ocean storm.
“Maybe if I’d just stayed away, you wouldn’t be looking at that envelope like it’s a bad thing. You’d be booking a flight, signing on the dotted line, and finally getting the goddamn empire you deserve.”
“That’s a load of crap, Colt, and you know it.”
“Do I?” His laugh is a harsh scrape of sound.
“You have a blueprint for your whole damn life in that notebook, Zoey. A road map. And guess what? I’m not on it.
I was never supposed to be part of the plan.
I’m the detour. The messy, inconvenient, concussed detour that showed up and fucked everything up. ”
"You think this is your fault?" My voice rises, incredulous.
"Colt, you baked my recipes. You flew my brothers here.
You… you gave me a spa day because you saw I hadn't had a goddamn break in eight years.
You're not the reason this is hard… you're the reason any of it feels possible in the first place! "
“Then take it!”
The words burst from him, so loud I flinch. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping the edge of the counter.
“This is your fucking dream, Zoey! The one you hid away because life got in the way. Don’t you dare let me be the thing that gets in the way now. Take it!”
“Why does it have to be me taking all the leaps?” I shoot back, my own voice rising to meet his.
“Why do I have to be the one risking everything while you stand there and give me permission? What about your leap, Colt? What about the phone call from your agent that’s burning a hole in your pocket right now?
What about the bigger stage, the bigger paycheck, the bigger everything that your parents probably already have framed on their damn mantel?
Isn’t that the dream you’ve been chasing since you were four? ”
“Don’t.” His goes deadly quiet as he cuts a dagger across at me. “Don’t bring them into this.”
“But it’s true! This is what you’ve always wanted, right? You want to stand there and talk about dreams. This is your dream too.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me. His eyes search mine, and I see the performance falling away, layer by layer, until only the raw, unguarded man beneath is left.
“You're right. It was my dream,” he says, his voice rough. “Until I walked into this bakery and found a different one.”
Tears spill over, tracing hot paths down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them away this time. It's too fucking hard.
“I’m scared,” I admit, the words shaky.
“I’m terrified, too.”
But just as I consider what this all means, a small, choked sound comes from the staircase.
We both freeze, turning.
Morgan stands on the bottom step, clutching her crayon drawing to her chest. She’s in her unicorn pajamas, her hair a wild cloud around her pale face. Her eyes are huge, wet, shattered.
“M-mom… Are you fighting?” she whispers.
My heart splinters and Colt’s shoulders slump. He takes a step toward her, then stops, like he’s afraid to scare her.
“No, baby,” I say, but my voice breaks.
She looks straight at Colt, her lower lip trembling. “Colt… Are you leaving?”
The devastation in her voice is the voice of a kid who’s heard too many empty promises before. I've tried to protect her for so long.
Morgan sniffles. "You said you weren’t going anywhere, Colt. You promised.”
Colt crosses the bakery and drops to his knees right there on the tile floor, putting himself at her eye level.
“Morgs.” His voice is firm, steady. “Look at me.”
She does, tears still spilling over.
He reaches out, takes her small hands in his. The crayon drawing crinkles between them. “I’m not leaving. Do you hear me?”
“But Mom said—” Her gaze flicks to me, accusing, terrified.
“Your mom is scared,” Colt says, his eyes never leaving Morgan’s.
“And that’s okay, because I’m scared too.
" He pulls her into a hug, then releases her and steadies her with both hands on her shoulders. "But being scared doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere, Morgan.
We're trying to sort out what matters. And you know what? You matter. More than any hockey team, more than any fancy bakery, more than anything. You know that, right?”
Morgan collapses against him, her small body shaking with silent sobs. Her arms wrap around his neck, holding on like he’s the only solid thing in a tilting world she shouldn't have to see.
I watch from across the room, my hand pressed over my mouth, tears streaming freely now.
This man. This ridiculous, chaotic man just swore to choose my daughter over Madison Square Garden. Over the dream he was literally born and bred for.
And in that moment, I know. I know what Declan was trying to tell me.
Morgan finally pulls back, sniffling. Colt brushes her hair from her face. “You believe me?” he asks softly.
She nods, hiccupping. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Now go back upstairs and I'll be up in a minute to help you get ready for bed.”
She gives him one last, wobbly smile, then pads back up the stairs, the drawing still clutched in her hand.
The silence she leaves behind is profound.
Colt stays on his knees for another moment, his head bowed. Then he pushes himself to his feet, his movements heavy with exhaustion.
He turns to face me, but we don’t speak. We just look at each other across the battlefield of my kitchen.
Eventually, I slide down the front of the cabinets until I’m sitting on the cool tile floor. Mostly because my legs won’t hold me anymore, but also, because I don't know what else to do.
Colt sinks down beside me, his back against the cabinet next to mine.
He’s so big next to me, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his thighs straining against the dark fabric of his jeans. I remember how they felt under my hands last night. How they trembled with passion.
He turns his head, and his gaze sweeps over my face, my tear-streaked cheeks, my lips.
“Zoey,” he says deeply. "I'm not done helping you. Not yet."
“I just… I don’t know how to take something I want,” I whisper, “and not lose everything else.”
“Then let me help you figure it out.”
I turn to look at the strong lines of his features, the shadow of stubble, the faded bruise. “That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? Since day one.”
He smiles, like the answer is so simple. “I'd do anything for you, Zoey. Anything.”
My hand finds his on the cool tile between us. Our fingers lace together.
The envelope sits on the counter above us. The phone in his pocket holds the other offer.
But here, on the floor I've swept a thousand times, the floor Morgan has eaten cereal on and drawn chalk horses on and fallen asleep on during late baking nights, there's just this: the warmth of his hand wrapped around mine.
Somewhere upstairs, my daughter is getting ready for bed, completely unaware that her mother is sitting on the cold tile, holding the hand of a man she's terrified to keep.
And maybe that's what I've been missing this whole time. Not just what I'm afraid to lose. But what she's already found.
And maybe for the the first time ever, I know exactly what I need to do next.