What the hell?
Is Gabe Devereaux initiating banter?!
"'Her eyes are like pools of warm caramel,'" Gabe continues, clearly making this up as he goes, "'and when she hands me a spatula, I just want to look her in the eye and lick—'"
I snatch it from his hands so fast I nearly take his fingers with it.
"It'sresearchfor the partnership, you overgrown lump."
Gabe's expression says he doesn't believe a single syllable. Behind him, Samuel's arms are crossed, and those captain's eyes are doing that thing where they see straight through your bullshit and out the other side.
"Since when do you care enough to doresearch?" Samuel says flatly.
"For your information, I studied business strategy in college." I shove the notebook deep into my bag and yank the zipper shut.
"You went to college?!" Cade calls out, high-fiving Silas.
"Fortwo whole semesters, thank you very much."
"Two semesters!" Silas claps a hand to his chest. "Boys, gather 'round. Our Colt's ascholar."
Samuel tilts his head and smirks along with them. "Is that also why you sent her to the beauty salon last night?"
Oh, come on.
"Who told you about that?"
Samuel's lip twitches. "What can I say… It's a small town, Lane."
"Alright, I'm leaving now." I shoulder my bag, notebook secure, backing toward the exit. "Great chat, everyone. Really nice to be back around the team. Love the energy."
I push through the Clawhouse doors and step into the cool corridor, my pulse still jackhammering.
That was close.
Nobody needs to know that I've been reading that notebook every night. Turning those worn pages under the lamp in mysilent apartment, tracing the loops of her handwriting with my thumb, unable to stop thinking about her for once damn second.
The thing I just can't get past is…
She wrote herdreamsin that book. Every single one.
Her franchise maps. Her five-year projections. The menu concepts she sketched with tiny croissant drawings in the margins.
And then she shoved them on a high shelf and told herself they didn't matter anymore.
That's not fair.
I head out of The Den and pile into my SUV, excited to tell Zoey my news. The sage-green door of Butter Batch is propped open when I arrive, letting the late morning breeze carry the scent of warm sugar and toasted almonds straight into the street.
Through the serving window, I can see the back kitchen is already clean. The trays are stacked, the counters wiped, the Italian brick oven is cooling down from its morning shift.
"Morrison?" I call out, looking through the kitchen doors for a flash of silky hair. "Your favorite ambassador has arrived. Late, but bearing good news and an incredible personality."
I spot her leaning against the prep counter with a stack of photographs fanned out in front of her. The sunshine is pouring through the window behind her, andJesus Christ.
She's still wearing the glow from last night's salon trip.
She's wearing a blackButter Batchtop that hugs every soft curve of her breasts. And those jeans.Christ.They cling to the thick flare of her hips, the lush curve of her ass, and all I want is to sink my fingers into them until she gasps.
