I deposit the survivors onto a clean tray, mentally calculating the lost profit. Twelve muffins, gone. Three hours of work, wasted. And one overgrown hockey player who apparently has the spatial awareness of a puppy in a china shop.
I glance toward the back where I banished him, but he's not there.
He's right next to me.
"Need help?" Colt's voice comes from directly behind me.
I look up. He's crouched down, reaching for a caramel bite that rolled under the display case.
"I've got it." I snatch the caramel bite before he can. "Just—here, take these to the back. The ones that hit the floor are trash. The rest go on the counter."
He nods, gathering the survivors into his arms like he's rescuing wounded soldiers.
The next hour is pure chaos.
Colt tries to help. He really does. But he's toobigfor my small kitchen. Every time I turn around, he's there… reaching past me for a tray, squeezing through the narrow gap between the counter and the display case, his body radiating heat like a furnace.
At one point, he slides past me to grab a stack of napkins, and his hand grazes my hip. I can't help but hope Morgan sleeps tonight so I can relive the moment. Alone. In my bed.
"New hire, Zoey?"
Mrs. Jenkins is peering at Colt over the top of her reading glasses, her weekly order of apple turnovers clutched to her chest.
"Something like that." I manage a smile. "Colt,no—!"
But it's too late. The clumsiest man on earth has already knocked over the stack of to-go boxes I spent twenty minutes showing him how to fold correctly.
"Sorry," he says sheepishly.
I roll my eyes, get back to work, and by early afternoon, the rush has finally slowed down.
The display case is half-empty. Some from sales, some from Colt-related casualties, but at least the batch of experimental apricot danishes sold out in record time. Though I suspect that had more to do with the audience watching Colt fumble around my kitchen than any sudden danish appreciation.
I lean against the counter, exhausted.
From the back, I hear the sound of running water at the sink.
"Hey Boss, do these oven trays go in the dishwasher, or...?" The voice fades. "Um, Zoey? What's this?"
I close my eyes and move out through the back door, thinking it's going to be a long two weeks.
I find him standing by the high shelf near the copper pots, sleeves still rolled to his elbows, forearms glistening with soap suds.
But that's not what stops me dead in my tracks.
It's what he's holding.
He's holding a worn leather notebook. It's the color of caramel, soft from years of handling, the spine cracked from being opened too many times.
It'smynotebook. The one I shoved up on the shelf three years ago and tried to forget existed.
"Give me that—"
I lunge, but he's already flipping through the pages, brow furrowed with genuine curiosity. His soapy fingers leave wet marks on the pages, and I want to scream.
"Colt! Would you stop ruiningeverything?!"
But he's not listening.
