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 andfallen 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 knowexactlywhat I need to do next.
Chapter 21
Colt
Iwake up with a cramp in my neck, a child’s elbow digging into my ribs, and the scent of Zoey's baking drifting up from downstairs.
And I’ve never been happier.
Even after whatever happened last night.
I twist on the sofa, careful not to make a sound. Morgan is curled against my side, one small hand fisted in my shirt, the other clutching the crayon drawing she never let go of last night.
Her unicorn pajamas are soft against my arm, and her breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that only comes when you feel completely safe.
Last night, after everything… the tears, the fear, the yelling… Morgan wouldn’t let go the second I came back upstairs. I helped her brush her teeth and her hair, then we read her favorite book and moved to the sofa while Zoey got some pillows and blankets with a quiet, exhausted resignation that her daughter was absolutelynotsleeping anywhere but at my side.
Now, morning light filters through the windows, and downstairs, I can hear the familiar sounds of the ovens starting up, the clatter of sheet pans, and the soft chime of the bell as the door opens and closes.
Zoey’s already working, probably hoping to distract herself from making the choice we both know she needs to make.
My heart does something complicated and painful in my chest.
Carefully, I ease my arm out from under Morgan. She stirs, mumbling something incoherent, her fingers tightening for a second before relaxing and letting go of her drawing.
I grab the drawing and tuck the blanket around her, smoothing her wild hair back from her face. She looks so small. So peaceful.
I stand, stretching out the kinks, and head quietly down the stairs in my socks and yesterdays clothes.
The bakery is buzzing already, with trays of golden-brown croissants gently cooling on racks in the kitchen. The air is thick with the scent of caramelizing sugar and freshly ground coffee, and behind the front counter, moving with a tense, robotic efficiency, is Zoey.
She’s already in her apron, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes tell me she didn’t sleep much, if at all.
Harold Frost is at the counter, peering into the display case with his usual critical expression as Zoey gathers his morning order.
