Chapter Twenty-Five
STEVIE
The Blue Door is actually blue.
Like, aggressively blue. Blue with opinions. Blue that has seen things.
I don’t know why that surprises me. It’s right there in the name. Maybe I thought it’d be ironic beige. But standing on the sidewalk of a small Colorado town I’ve never seen before, staring at a bakery I’m supposed to pretend I own, the blue of the door catches me off guard.
It’s the exact shade of Saul’s eyes.
Of course it is.
Because the universe has a sick sense of humor and apparently my type is ‘men who destroy my peace but smell incredible doing it.’
Bonus points if they carry trauma like an accessory and make me want to bake them into a pie and marry them simultaneously.
“What do you think?”
Saul’s beside me. He drove the whole way. Fourteen hours across three states, stopping only when I needed to use thebathroom or he needed coffee. He looks tired. Rumpled. His hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in three different directions because he keeps running his hands through it like he’s trying to scalp himself via stress
Ten out of ten on the hot but haunted scale.
“It’s blue,” I say.
“That’s... yes. That’s accurate.”
“Like your eyes.” The words come out before I can stop them.
I feel him looking at me but I keep staring at the door because if I look at him right now, I might do something stupid like cry or kiss him or both.
“Is that a good thing?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know yet.”
Might be a blessing. Might be a breakdown. Honestly, could go either way.
He doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Saul. He never pushes. He just stands there, steady and patient, waiting for me to figure out what I need.
I needed Dario to see me. I needed Enzo to be real with me. I need Saul to stay.
But he can’t. He’s here for a week. Seven days to help me set up a life and then he leaves, because that’s the job, that’s the deal, that’s how witness protection works.
I’m really tired of people leaving.
“Should we go inside?” he asks.
I nod. Don’t trust my voice.
He pulls out a key, my key, technically, Zoey Carter’s key, and unlocks the blue door.
The bakery smells like dust, disuse, and aggressive potential. It’s waiting for me to either start a business or a breakdown. Possibly both.
Empty display cases line one wall. A counter with a register that looks like it’s from the 90s. Behind it, a doorway leading to what must be the kitchen.
It’s small. Worn. The kind of place that definitely hosted a health code violation in 2006 and is now waiting for someone to love it back to life with sugar and trauma.
Relatable.
