Snow Leopards Local Partnership Program: Connecting Our Team to Our Town
But I don't stop. I don't read it or ask questions like I normally would.
Because right now… I don't care.
The parking lot is bright and cold and completely empty, and I sit in my SUV for a long time, the engine off as I stare up at The Leopard Den through the windshield.
Without hockey... who am I?
The question settles into the silence like it's been waiting there all along.
And for the first time in my life, I don't have an answer. Because I've never done this. I've nevernotbeen the show. The star player.Theman.
So I start the engine.
I'm not ready to go home yet. But I know exactly where Iamready to go.
Butter Batch Bakery opens at ten.
And I need another blueberry muffin served to me by the goddamn prettiest distraction in town.
Chapter 2
Zoey
Islide the third tray of raspberry tarts into the oven and take a look around at my happy place.
Yeah, there's a horrid mess leftover from the mad morning rush scattered around the bakery. There's an endless to-do list pinned to the corkboard above my mixing station, and even a stack of red-stamped supplier bills I've been avoiding since last month hidden in the back corner.
But at least it's just me, pretending everything is alright. I've got my kitchen, and the sun is shining through Butter Batch's front windows.
It could be worse, right?
Everything in this bakery tells a story, from the reclaimed wood counter I found at a farm auction, to the sage-green walls I painted at two in the morning while Morgan slept upstairs.
Even the hand-lettered menu board above the register took me six attempts to get right, each failed version crumpled on myapartment floor at midnight while I stress-ate my way through an entire test batch of raspberry tarts.
Eight years ago, I drove into Chilmore with a toddler in a car seat, a second-hand oven strapped into a rented trailer, and approximately zero idea what I was doing.
Now look at me.
Istillhave no idea what I'm doing. But at least my pastries are good.
"Zoey! You awake back there, or has the yeast army finally claimed you?"
Harold Frost's raspy voice cuts through my morning meditation, and I wipe my hands on my apron before pushing through the swinging door to the front counter.
"I'm awake, Harold. Unlikesomepeople who were supposed to pick up their order forty minutes ago."
Harold stands at the display case, his wild gray hair defying gravity as usual, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He's pressed against the display case I've loaded with delicious treats, examining the croissants like they're fine art.
Which honestly, theyare. Even if I have to say so myself.
"Millicent had opinions about which pastries to add," he grumbles. "She has opinions about everything. Forty-seven years of marriage, and the woman still thinks she knows better than me about pastry."
"Shedoesknow better than you about pastry, Harold." I start boxing up his regular order—two dozen assorted pastries for Frost Café, because apparently his coffee empire needsmybaked goods to survive. "That's why you're here every morning instead of baking your own."
"I could bake my own," he huffs.