Because atracksuitshould not look that good on anyone. It's deep purple with silver accents and the Snow Leopards logo emblazoned across the back. But the way it drapes over his shoulders, tapers at his waist, and then...
Oh, for the love of all things holy.
His ass.
I'm staring at Colt Lane's ass as he walks into my kitchen.
And I cannot make myself stop.
It's tight and firm and moves with an athlete's easy grace, the fabric stretching just enough with each stride to hint at the muscle underneath. My fingers twitch against the door, and I have the sudden, horrifying thought of what it would feel like to grab a handful.
No. Absolutely not.
I tear my eyes away, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead.
"Stop it, Zoey. Stop it."
I have approximately three seconds of peace before I hear him shuffling around back there. I use those three seconds to take a breath and remind myself that this is a business arrangement. A professional partnership. I am an adult woman who has handled difficult situations before, and I can certainly handle one overgrown hockey player who smells like—
But then he emerges from the back with a tray in hand. Only now, he has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Oh HELL no.
Holy hell, those forearms.
They're tanned.Howis he tanned in Chilmore?! Not only that, but they're corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the skin. They flex as he adjusts his grip on the tray, and my core floods with a feeling I completely forgot I could feel.
I force my gaze away, busying myself with the coffee machine.
"Oh shit, Zoey!Help!"
CRASH.
I spin around, and my heart drops straight through the floor.
Colt is standing in the middle of my bakery, and mybeautiful, golden-topped, perfectly risen blueberry muffins are scattered across the tile in every direction. Caramel bites have rolled to the far corners of the room, some crushed under his sneakers, others lodged beneath the display case where I'll be fishing them out for months.
One tray is still spinning on its edge, the metal scrape against tile echoing through the sudden silence before it finally clatters to a stop at his feet.
I stare at the destruction. Then at him.
"Um." He looks down at the carnage, then back up at me. "Whoops?"
Before I can respond, the door chimes. Then again. Then again.
Because the morning rush doesn't wait for muffin disasters.
"Go—just—" I wave him out of the way, dropping to my knees to salvage what I can. "Go stand somewhere. Anywhere. Just don't touch anything else."
He retreats toward the back, and I spend the next three minutes on my hands and knees, picking up muffins while customers file past me like this is completely normal.
Maybe it is now. Maybe this is just my life.
Story of my life, really. I spent my childhood picking up after three hockey-obsessed brothers, then I spent my marriage picking up after a man who couldn't be bothered to stay.
Even now… I pick up after Morgan. Which I don't mind, because she'smine.
This is fine. Everything is fine.