Page 81 of Nanny for the Bikers

A rogue puff of flour smacks me in the face and I sputter, blinking rapidly. I hear Kip’s rich laugh and whirl towards him with narrowed eyes. “You are so dead, mister.”

I lunge for the flour bag but he snatches it away at the last second, holding it high overhead with a wicked grin. Curse his unfairly long arms. He waggles his brows. “What’re you gonna do about it, shortstack?”

I grab a measuring cup and manage to scoop some ammo while he’s distracted by his own smugness. Then I fling the contents right into his stupidly handsome face.

Kip makes an indignant squawk, powder clinging to his lashes, the tip of his nose. I double over wheezing. The sight is too good.

“Nicely done,” Clay approves, shooting me an impressed look as he wipes flour from his cheek. “About time someone took Kip down a peg.”

“Hey!” Kip protests. “I heard that!” He makes to retaliate but I skitter away, using Clay’s broad frame as a human shield.

We’re all breathless now, cheeks flushed and aching from laughter. I feel lighter than I have in ages.

“Alright children, settle down,” Teller calls out, voice tinged with fond exasperation. His blue eyes crinkle. “As entertaining as this is, we should probably focus on actually making dinner sometime tonight, hmm?”

I glance sheepishly at the flour-dusted warzone of a kitchen. Woops. “Uh, right. Dinner. We’re on it, boss!”

Clay and Kip snap to attention and fire off twin salutes. “Sir, yes sir!”

Teller just shakes his head, lips twitching.

With a few more snickers and playful hip-checks, we regroup and get down to business. I start delegating tasks, falling easily into Head Chef mode.

I guide them through the steps, offering tips and tricks I’ve picked up over the years. My mom taught me to cook from a young age, before everything went sideways... I push the gloomy thought away.

No dwelling on the past.

Soon, the kitchen fills with an aromatic symphony - sizzling garlic and onion, bubbling tomato sauce, tender pasta. We work seamlessly together, my enthusiasm spurring the guys on until a full Italian feast takes shape before our eyes.

The aroma of our culinary creation permeates every corner of the cozy cabin, drawing us in like a siren’s song. I can’t help but feel a swell of pride as I watch Clay and Kip set the table, their eyes alight with anticipation.

“I’m starving,” Kip declares, rubbing his hands together. “This smells incredible, Ayla.”

Clay nods in agreement, a grin spreading across his face. “I never knew cooking could be so much fun. You’re a great teacher.”

I duck my head, feeling a blush creep up my neck at the sincere compliment. “Thanks, guys. But it was a team effort. We all pitched in.”

We gather around the table. Teller joins us, settling Piper into her highchair with a tender smile. The little girl babbles excitedly, her chubby hands reaching for the colorful array of dishes.

As we pass around the steaming bowls of pasta and plates piled high with crisp salad, the conversation flows as easily as the wine Kip pours into our glasses. Wine for me anyways, as the men settle for beer.

Laughter punctuates the air, the sound blending with the patter of rain against the windows. I take a moment to savor the scene, committing every detail to memory. The way Clay’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. The deep, rich timbre of Teller’s laugh. The mischievous glint in Kip’s eyes as he regales us with a hilarious anecdote.

I watch nervously as the boys take their first bites, hoping they’ll enjoy the meal we prepared together.

Teller’s eyes widen as he chews. He swallows and grins at me, an eyebrow raised. “Wow, Ayla! This is amazing,” he mumbles appreciatively through another mouthful of pasta.

I feel a flush of pride at his words. Coming from a man of few of them, his compliment means a lot.

Clay and Kip are already digging in with gusto, forks clinking against plates as they devour their food. “We’ve got to do this more often!” Clay declares between bites, blue eyes sparkling with delight as he looks up at me. “This is restaurant quality!”

“Seriously, so good,” Kip agrees, reaching for a second helping of salad. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

I shrug, feeling both pleased and a bit self-conscious under their enthusiastic praise. Cooking has always been a passion of mine, a way to show love and care for others. I used to make my mom grilled cheese sandwiches when she got sad. I made chicken pot pie when we could afford a little bit more ingredients, which wasn’t very often. But it’s not something I usually get much credit for.

As I watch the boys happily stuffing their faces, laughing and joking together, a sense of warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the fireplace crackling nearby.

Teller catches my eye from across the table, giving me a small, knowing smile as if sensing my thoughts. Next to him, baby Piper gurgles and reaches a chubby hand toward his plate.

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