He shrugs, casual as anything. "Bulk sourcing. Packaging your creations at scale. You've already done the math."
My pulse stutters.
"How," I whisper, "would you know that?"
But Delaney stands, tucking her tablet under her arm as I study Colt'ssheepishexpression before turning my attention back to her.
"Of course she has. You'll be fine." She pauses at the door. "And Zoey? Don't forget you've got a strong hockey player standing right behind you, willing to help." She leans in and whispers, "And I hear he's pretty good with his hands."
The bell chimes as she sweeps out into the cold Chilmore morning, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and unsettling wisdom in her wake.
The bakery goes quiet.
I turn around slowly.
Colt's still leaning against the counter, but the playful energy from earlier has shifted into something quieter. More deliberate.
"So," I say. "A signature treat for The Leopard Den."
"Pretty cool, right?" He pushes off the counter and moves toward me. "You'll create something amazing, I know it."
I hold his gaze, my heart hammering.
"How are you so sure?" I tilt my head, studying him. "You've been here a week, Colt. But you talk like you've read my entire business plan over my shoulder."
He looks down at his feet, hiding his eyes so I can't study them.
"You make magic every morning, Zoey," he says. "Scaling that? Easy."
But something in his eyes says he knowsmore.
Say something sharp. Something that puts distance between you.
Something that reminds him—and yourself—that this is just business.
But my mouth doesn't cooperate.
Because now we're alone, all I can think about is yesterday, when his lips on mine, and the fact that his hands felt like they could pin me anywhere he wanted.
"So." Colt's mouth curves into that familiar grin, and he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two rectangular pieces of card stock. He holds them up between his fingers, watching my face. "I was going to give you these yesterday. Before you, uh..." He clears his throat. "Before your lips distracted me."
"Shut up." I swat his arm. "Morgan will hear you."
He laughs, catching my wrist gently. My skin heats instantly as he presses two Snow Leopards tickets into my palm. Saturday's game against Seattle.
Seats behind the home bench.
"Colt… what's this?"
"Now before you say no—" He holds up a hand. "Willa cleared me yesterday. Light skating. Non-contact drills. I'll be back onthe ice next week, which probably means I won't be around the bakery as much."
My stomach drops.
He won't be around as much.
"I know you'll miss me terribly," he adds, and there's that grin again. "So I figured the least I could do is show you my world. The way you've shown me yours."
I stare at the tickets. My thumb traces the embossed Snow Leopards logo, the seat numbers, the gold foil accents that shine in the light.
