"I was going to sayvertical." She pops a hip. "Which is an improvement from the last time I saw you."
Ouch.
But Zoey can pretend all she wants. Because I know the truth.
She visited me.
Multiple times while I was in hospital.
I remember the smell of vanilla and brown butter cutting through the antiseptic while I was laid out on that fucking bed. I also remember thinking I must be dreaming… because why did Zoey care so much?
My own damn parents didn't even bother to show up.
"Well," I say, stepping closer, "if you checked your Instagram messages once in a while, you'd have known I was making my triumphant return today."
She tucks that strand of hair behind her ear again.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Between Morgan and the bakery, I've been…" She trails off, shrugging. "Busy."
Right.Busy.The single mom's excuse forI'm keeping my distance.
"Busy," I repeat, watching her carefully. "That's what you're going with?"
Her eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." I shrug, mirroring her casual posture even though nothing about this feels casual. "Just that you found time to sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair for three different visits, but you can't find thirty seconds to text back a guy who was literally unconscious and somehowstillthinking about you."
For one electric second, I see something crack in her composure as her lips part with surprise.
Then she recovers, and pastes on a fake smile.
"You were thinking about me?" Her voice is lighter now, deflecting. "Must have been the painkillers."
"Must have been," I agree, even though we both know that's bullshit.
I reach across and snag a blueberry muffin from her cart, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Her eyebrow arches again. "Well, for what it's worth Colt… you arenotmy favorite customer. You're a menace, and you know it."
"Oh, Zoey." I press a hand to my heart. "You wound me."
I take a bite of the muffin, and holyhell, it's good. Buttery and sweet with that perfect crumble on top, blueberries bursting against my tongue.
"Seriously though," I say, chewing slowly. "How's Morgan? She still planning world domination, or has she moved on to something more reasonable?"
That gets a real laugh. If there's a way to get Zoey Morrison talking, it's to bring up the love of her life: her ten year old daughter.
"She's good. She asked about you, actually."
I lean against the wall to block the cart she keeps trying to push past me.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She wanted to know if your brain was still broken." Zoey adjusts a box on the cart, meeting my eyes with her own smug look. "Don't look at me like that. They were her words. Not mine."
"Then you tell her it was always broken. The concussion just made it official."
Zoey shakes her head, but she's smiling now.
