I pinch my nose, and look around while my eyes water from the smell.
Jesus. The bakery is a mess.
The display case sits half-empty, glass smudged with fingerprints. Crumbs are scattered all across the floor in a trailfrom the counter to the back kitchen, and the trash cans are overflowing in every corner.
"What the f—"
"Oh, Colt. Thank God you're finally here." Morgan's at the window table, hunched over her homework. Her voice is quiet as her eyes dart to the back kitchen. "Mom's having aday."
"Yeah?" I drop my sports bag by the door. "How bad?"
Morgan glances toward the kitchen, then back at me, lowering her voice to a whisper.
"Well, maybe you should see for yourself."
I nod and go out back, but fuck me. The kitchen is a disaster too.
Three trays sit on the counter, each one holding a charred tragedy. Tray one has pastries that look like they got stuck in a deflation device. Tray two looks like the oven turned on them halfway through cooking. Tray three… I'm not even sure what tray three was supposed to be.
And in the middle of it all is Zoey.
She's got her hair scraped back into a knot that's losing the battle on three sides. There's something on her cheek, a smear of something else on her apron, and from where I'm standing, I'm pretty sure she hasactualfood chunks in her hair.
Her hands are braced on the counter, head down. She's not crying. But she'sclose.
"Zo."
She doesn't look up. "Colt, please. Not now. I can't—"
I just cross the kitchen, pull her gently away from the counter, and wrap her up in my arms.
She makes a sound. A small, broken little sound that goes straight through my chest and lodges itself somewhere it's not coming out of anytime soon. Her forehead drops to my collarbone and her body justgives way, all the tension she's been holding melting against me in one long exhale.
I hold her tighter, squeezing her between my arms.
"I've got you."
"I can't get it right." Her voice is muffled into my sweater. "I've tried it four different ways and none of them taste right. I can't find myfuckingnotebook, and I have a supplier meeting in—" She lifts her head and squints at the clock. "Fifty-three minutes.The front is amess, and Morgan needs help—"
"Hey.Hey." I hold her face in my hands, thumbs sweeping her cheekbones as I consider telling herIhave her notebook. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe for one second."
Her eyes meet mine and she breathes deep.
It's shaky, but it's a breath.
"There you go." I tilt her chin up. "Why don't you head down the street and grab a coffee before the supplier meeting? Get out of here for a few minutes, breathe some air that doesn't taste like a house fire, and order Harold's triple shot special. I'm telling you, that thing could broker world peace and you'll feel better. Promise."
"Colt—"
"Go. I've got everything else. Morgs and I will clean the front. Right, kid?" I call over my shoulder.
Morgan's now standing in the kitchen doorway, watching us with the unimpressed expression of a child who has been observing questionable adult behavior for far too long.
"I guess." She slumps her shoulders dramatically. "But I'm missing valuable cartoon time, so just know that."
"Noted." I look back at Zoey. "Go. Change your shirt, fix that—" I gently pluck the chunk of pastry out of her hair, "—situation, and crush that meeting."
She stares at the pastry chunk in my hand like she didn't even know it was there.
