I’ve torn the room apart. The damn earring is not in the jewelry box. Not on the nightstand. Not on the floor, which is currently a disaster zone of discarded towels, three different outfit options, and a single high heel I haven’t worn since Morgan’s kindergarten graduation.
“Where are you?” I mutter, dropping to my knees to peer under the bed.
A fuzzy dust bunny stares back, but no earring.
Ding-dong.
I freeze as the doorbell downstairs chimes.
My heart lurches into my throat. Colt? No, he said he’d text when he was leaving The Den. It’s too early.
Plus, we're meeting athisplace, aren't we?
Scrambling up, I grab the nearest towel and wrap it around myself. It barely covers the essentials, but I head barefoot down the narrow staircase anyway, my wet hair dripping a cold trail down my spine.
Through the glass of the bakery door, I see two figures backlit by the soft glow of Main Street’s evening lights.
Phew.It's not Colt.
I unlock the door and pull it open just enough to peer out. Delaney is looking impossibly sleek in fitted black athleisure wear and a purple Snow Leopards youth league hoodie, her blonde hair in a perfect high ponytail.
And beside her, Tate Holloway is leaning against the doorframe with that lazy, flirty grin, wearing a matching hoodie.
“Zoey!” Delaney’s eyes rake over me. Her perfectly glossed lips curve into a smirk. “Well, don’t you look… freshly showered.”
Tate’s gaze flicks down, then immediately back up to my face with exaggerated politeness. “We, uh… didn’t interrupt anything, did we?”
My cheeks burn. “Just getting ready. What’s up?”
Delaney holds up her tablet. The screen glows on her sharp features. “I was on my way to the youth league game—Tate’s coaching tonight—and I had to stop. The numbers from the launch are starting to steady.”
“And?” My pulse kicks, but for a completely different reason now.
Delaney’s smile turns triumphant.
“They’reinsane. The partnership content has more engagement than anything the Snow Leopards have posted allseason. We’ve got thousands of votes. And guess what’s pulling ahead by a landslide?”
She turns the tablet toward me.
There, in elegant purple and gold graphics, is a live voting tally.
Cardamom-Butter Twists: 68%
My breath catches. “No way.”
“Way.” Delaney’s eyes sparkle. “Big Mike is thrilled. Like, scarily thrilled. He’s already talking about expansion. Like…nationalinterest, Zoey. Franchise territories.”
The wordfranchisehangs in the air between us, shimmering and huge and terrifying.
A dream I packed away in a leather binder… suddenly breathing again.
Tate nudges Delaney’s shoulder. “Told you they were the best. I ate, like, six.”
“You ate eight,” Delaney corrects, not looking away from me. “The point is, this is happening. It's likely that your twist is going to be the official Snow Leopards treat. And Big Mike wants to know if you can scale the recipe for arena production by next month.”
Next month? The timeline should make me panic.
Instead, a weird, electric hope buzzes in my chest.
