“Ah!There she is!” Mason booms, sweeping Morgan into a bear hug that makes her squeal. “The sleeping beauty has arrived!”
Beck grins, snagging a cinnamon roll from the case. “We heard you had a late night.”
Declan leans against the counter, arms crossed, his gaze scanning me from head to toe. The oversized hoodie, the sleep-tangled hair, the socks that are definitely not shoes.
A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face.
“Rough night, Zee?”
“I slept in,” I say, not looking directly at him.
I busy myself straightening the already-straight rows of chocolate croissants in the display case, adjusting them by millimeters that don't need adjusting, because looking at my brothers right now feels like staring directly into the sun.
“Uh-huh.” Beck snags another cinnamon roll, leaning his hip against the display case. “We noticed. Lane mentioned you were… recuperating.”
My fingers still on the glass. “Oh, did he just…”
“Yes. He was very diplomatic about it,” Mason says, releasing Morgan so she can scamper back to her coloring. He folds his massive arms, mimicking Declan’s brotherly posture. “Said you needed the rest. Didn’t specify why you needed it athis place.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“It’s not—it was late. It made sense for me to stay there, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Declan repeats. The playful glint in his eyes has faded, replaced by something more assessing. “Does it also make sense for this guy to show up here at five-thirty in the morning with a key to your bakery, knowing your recipes by heart, and teaching Morgs how to work the espresso machine?”
“He didn’t teach me,” Morgan calls from her stool, not looking up from her drawing. “I taught him. He kept pressing the wrong button.”
“See?” I gesture toward her, as if that proves everything. “It was ateameffort. You were here. You helped. Now shut up.”
“We did help,” Beck agrees, ignoring my plea for silence and popping the last of the roll into his mouth. “But we also saw the way he kept looking at the door. Waiting for you. It was kinda pathetic, actually. Like a puppy dog who lost his favorite ball.”
“He was not pathetic,” Morgan defends, finally glancing over. “He was concerned. It’s called being a gentleman.”
The three of them share a look that speaks volumes. A silent, brotherly conversation conducted entirely in raised eyebrows and slight head tilts. It's a language they've spoken fluently since childhood, and right now, it's saying very loud things about me.
“He’s good with her,” Mason says, his tone conceding the point but laced with caution.
“That's right. He is,” I admit softly, because it’s true and it’s the part that terrifies me most.
I've spent years protecting Morgan.
Every decision, every choice, every sacrifice… it's all been about keeping her safe from disappointment. From abandonment. From men who promise the world and then vanish without a trace.
But Colt Lane walked right through those walls I built around her like they were made of tissue paper.
And the worst part? Morgan held the door open for him.
“Zoey, let me ask. Is he as good with you as he is with her?” Declan asks, pushing off the counter to take a step closer. “Because, Zee, what we saw this morning wasn’t just a hockey pro fulfilling a sponsorship duty. That was a man in your kitchen, wearing your apron, making your daughter laugh. That’s…”
“… part of the partnership,” I insist. “He’s the ambassador. He’s supposed to help.”
“Ambassadors don’t usually have sleepovers,” Beck points out.
Ambassadors also don’t worship you with a mouth so devastatingly patient you forget how to breathe.
“It’s none of your business,” I snap, cutting each of them a glare. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
Morgan slides off her stool and skips over to me, slipping her small hand into mine. She looks up, her hazel-green eyes serious. “I think he’s nice, Mom.”
