Chapter 4:

-ZOEY ASHFORD-

Flour dusted the countertops. And my hair. And Wes’s shirt.

“Okay,” I laughed, trying to brush a streak of white off his cheek. “I swear you’re making more of a mess than the dough.”

“Correction,” Wes said, stealing the wooden spoon from my hand with infuriating ease. “I’m making better dough than you are. There’s a difference.”

I pretended to gasp. “Excuse me? I was baking long before you came around with your… your fancy wrist technique.”

“Wrist technique?” He grinned, rolling the dough with exaggerated flair. “This is skill. Years of practice. Generations of—hey!”

I flicked flour at him, and a small cloud puffed into the air between us. He froze, eyebrows raised, lips twitching.

“Did you just start a war?”

“Maybe,” I said, backing up with my palms raised. “But you wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I’d dare.”

Wes lunged. I squealed, trying to dodge him, but his hands were faster. A streak of flour smeared across my arm, another across my cheek. I laughed so hard my stomach ached, my back hitting the counter as I tried to block him.

“Truce!” I gasped. “Okay, okay—truce!”

He stopped, breathless but smiling, his eyes bright and warm. For a second, neither of us moved.

There was something about those pauses with him. The way the laughter softened into something quieter. Safer.

I wasn’t used to that with anyone.

“Fine. Truce,” he said, but his voice was softer now. He stepped back, and I realized my heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the flour war.

I turned to the dough just to have something to do. “We’re never going to get these rolls done if we keep acting like kids.”

“Speak for yourself,” Wes said, but his smile lingered. “I think we’re making excellent progress. You’re finally learning how to have fun in the kitchen.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know how to have fun. I just… don’t usually have someone to do it with. Except for you and Mariah.. Sometimes”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me for a moment, like he heard more than I meant to say.

And that was the thing about Wes—he had a way of being easy to laugh with, but even easier to… trust.

It scared me, a little, how quickly I’d gone from a stranger in a dim bar crying over a canceled wedding to someone who felt… lighter. Like there was life in me again.

Like I wasn’t just the girl someone didn’t want.

I glanced up, and he was still watching me. Not pitying. Not prying. Just there.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said gently, like he already knew.

“I’m kneading,” I deflected, pressing my hands into the dough. “That’s all I’m doing.”

“Sure you are.” He leaned closer, brushing a bit of flour from my hair. “You missed a spot.”

My pulse jumped. “Thanks.”

He smiled but didn’t push, didn’t crowd. That was another thing about him—he knew how to stand close without making it feel like too much.

We went back to work in a comfortable rhythm—rolling, shaping, brushing melted butter over the tops. I found myself humming, and he actually joined in, low and off-key but completely unbothered.

It felt… good.

It felt dangerous.

I was still smiling when a sharp knock echoed from the front door.

“I’ll get it,” I said automatically, wiping my hands on a towel as I headed toward the hallway. “You try not to burn the kitchen down while I’m gone.”

“Hey, I’m a professional,” Wes called after me, his voice teasing.

I pulled the door open—and froze.

My parents stood there.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.

“Zoey,” my mother said first, her voice careful, almost rehearsed.

“Hello, darling,” my father added, as if we’d spoken yesterday.

But we hadn’t. Not in three years.

I hadn’t seen them at Christmas, hadn’t gotten a phone call on my birthdays. Even when my courthouse wedding collapsed four months ago, they hadn’t reached out. Not a single word.

They were the kind of parents who signed checks, not cards. Who showed love through tuition payments and trust funds instead of hugs and conversations.

I’d grown up in a big house with marble floors, a grand staircase, and a nanny who knew more about my favorite bedtime stories than either of the people standing on my porch now.

And yet—seeing them here still cracked something open in me.

“What are you… doing here?” I asked, my voice thinner than I wanted.

My mother’s gaze flicked past me, maybe toward the sound of Wes’s voice drifting faintly from the kitchen. “We were in the area,” she said, as though that explained anything.

“In the area?” I repeated, still gripping the edge of the door. “For the first time in three years?”

My father exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “We heard about… what happened a few months ago.”

I stiffened. Of course they’d heard. People in their world always heard things. But they hadn’t called. They hadn’t even texted.

Now they are here. On my doorstep. With no warning.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, too quickly. “Really. You didn’t have to come.”

“Zoey,” my mother said again, softer this time. “May we come in?”

“No,” I said, before I could stop myself. “Not right now.”

Both of their brows lifted slightly—more surprise than hurt.

“I just mean…” I steadied my voice. “If you’re in town, I’ll come see you. Somewhere neutral. But not here. Not tonight.”

My father’s mouth opened, like he wanted to argue, but before he could, footsteps approached from behind me.

“Zoey?” Wes’s voice floated into the doorway, casual, warm, like it always was when he said my name. “Who’s at the—”

He stopped short when he saw them. I felt my body tense instantly. This wasn’t how I’d planned it. I wasn’t ready for my parents to know about him—not like this, not standing on my porch in the middle of a surprise visit.

My mother’s gaze sharpened. “Who is he?”

I swallowed. “This is Wes.”

“And is Wes the reason you called off your wedding?” Her tone sliced, controlled and clipped, but sharp enough to make my chest burn.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Zoey, we’re just trying to understand,” my father added quickly, but my mother didn’t soften.

“He shows up in your life,” she continued, “and suddenly you’ve changed your number, you’re ignoring family calls, and now you’re living with—”

“That’s enough,” I cut in, anger rising faster than I could catch it. “First of all, I didn’t call off the wedding. He did.”

My mother’s expression flickered but didn’t fall.

“And second,” I added, heat trembling in my voice, “you don’t get to show up after three years, after completely disappearing on me when my entire life blew apart, and demand answers. Not tonight.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and jagged.

“I think you should go,” I said finally, quieter now but firm. “I’ll come see you if you’re really in town. But not here. Not right now.”

My mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. My father gave a small nod, almost resigned.

“We’ll be at the hotel on Fifth,” he said. “Call us.”

I nodded once and shut the door before they could say anything else.

I stood there for a second, forehead against the wood, trying to breathe.

Behind me, Wes’s voice was careful. “Zoey… are you okay?”

I turned and walked past him.. my mood, totally ruined.

"Let's get the dough done" That was all I could say to him.