His hands tighten on my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
"You buy more lingerie again?" His voice drops, rough and hungry. "I'm still getting over the leather outfit you wore on Sunday."
His fingers flex against my ass, and I feel the thick ridge of him pressing up between my thighs.
"God, Colt," I breathe, my fingers tangling in his sandy blonde hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. "No, it's—Don't get too excited, okay?"
My heart is beating a little faster than it should be, but I reach for my tote bag by the sofa. My fingers close around the stiff folder inside, and I pull it out, resting it on my lap.
Colt’s gaze drops to it. “What’s this?”
“The new designs,” I say, still catching my breath. “For the Butter Batch brand. The official franchise logo, packaging… everything.”
I open the folder, and on top is a single sheet of heavy, matte paper. And on it, printed in crisp, beautiful detail, is the new logo for Butter Batch Bakery.
It’s not the whisk I drew in my notebook all those years ago. It’s not some sleek, corporate graphic that has no soul either.
It’s Morgan’s drawing.
Artfully recreated, yes. Cleaned up, given dimension and warmth. But it’s unmistakably her three stick figures: a tall one with yellow scribbles for hair, a medium one in a green apron, a small one with a tiny unicorn horn. They’re holding hands. And in the corner, remains that single, perfect red heart.
Beneath them, in the elegant script I chose out, it says:Butter Batch Bakehouse. Made with love.
Colt goes completely still.
For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at the paper, his eyes tracing every line as his breath catches.
Then he looks up at me, his blue eyes wide, glistening. “Zoey. That's us. That's… ourfamily.”
“And it’s going on everything,” I say, my own throat tight. “The bags. The boxes. The signage for the new kiosks at The Den. The franchise locations, when they open.” I swallow. “It’s the heart of the brand. Because it’s the heart of… this.”
He looks from the logo to me, and the emotion in his gaze is so raw it steals the air from my lungs.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers.
“Yeah? You really like it?”
“Sweetheart, it’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”
He leans in then, his forehead pressing against mine. Our noses brush. His breath is warm on my lips. “I love you,” he says, the words a vow. “So damn much.”
“I love you too.”
He pulls me back on top of him, kissing me with a soft, sweet, melting press of his lips that tastes like chocolate milk. But it ignites fast. It always does with us.
His hand cups my face, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. My fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, holding him close. The folder slides off my lap, forgotten on the floor.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against my mouth, “Morgan’s playlist is loud, right?”
“Very loud,” I agree, already breathless, my heart pounding and heat pooling low in my belly.
“And her door is shut.”
“It is.”
His eyes darken with pure heat. “Good.”
In one smooth movement, he stands, lifting me and laying me back against the cushions. He follows me down, his body covering mine, all hard muscle and warm weight.
