The caramel leather is unmistakable, soft and worn in the exact places my fingers know by heart.
"Colt… is that—" My voice breaks, coming out flat. "Is thatmy notebook?"
He swallows hard. "Yes."
"Youstoleit."
"Iborrowedit."
"No… Youstole my notebook?"
I can see his shoulders start to square up, the way he holds himself before a hit he knows is coming.
"I was going to give it back. Iamgoing to give it back. I just—" His hand drags through his hair.
"You've had it this whole time while I've been killing myself trying to recreate a recipe I couldn't find?"
He steps in closer, chest leaning against mine.
"Zo. I just wanted tohelp. I know you've been killing yourself trying to get that recipe right, but I just kept thinking, if I could just have a go… maybe all your dreams could come true."
I look at the notebook, remembering exactly that.My dreams.I gave up on them a long time ago, but this man? He just won't let them fade.
"I hope it's okay, Zo. I didn't mean to overstep. Really, I didn't."
I watch his face, the softness in his eyes where the swagger has finally fallen away. He really was just trying to help.
Just let him in.
"Oh, Colt."
I drop the pastry and grab the front of his hoodie, kissing him so fierce he stumbles back against the counter and pulls back to finish the sentence I stole.
"Zoey—"
But I can't stop.
I grab him again, pulling his mouth to mine, and Colt makes a low, broken sound before his hands grab my waist and he kisses me back. He lifts me off the floor, and my legs lock around his waist as he carries me to the sofa and lays me down on that perfectly untouched throw blanket.
He hovers over me, and his blue eyes have goneblack.
"Just say the word, and we stop."
I shake my head. "No. Don't stop. God, Colt… don't ever stop being you."
His kisses me again, his hands sliding up under my sweater the way they did in the locker room. Only this time, there's no team on the other side of a door. No Morgan three blocks away. No reason on the entire goddamn planet to not do this.
He pulls my sweater over my head and tosses it aside. His hoodie follows, then his t-shirt, and my hands slide up over his shoulders, down his chest, across abs that areridiculous.
He's all carved, lean muscle and sun-warm skin. He has a faint silver scar across his ribs and another along his collarbone, andthe bruise around his eye… that bruise I've watched fade for weeks, is finally, completelygone.
He's flawless.
In every possible way.
"You're beautiful," I whisper, fingertips trailing down his sternum.
"Hey. That's my line."
