Page 23 of Baby for the Bikers

Brick gives me that look—the one that says he knows exactly where my mind wanders. “I said, why don’t you show Rowan the recipes you perfected for the opening menu? She needs to know what she’s working with.”

I nod, moving toward the kitchen.

“Ryder’s the only one of us with a professional degree,” Brick tells Rowan, following us through the swinging door. “Culinary school at eighteen. Only one in his class to graduate with honors.”

I don’t need to look to know Rowan is studying me with new interest.

“Let’s get to work,” I say, eager to redirect her attention.

The kitchen isn’t the largest in the world, but it’s perfectly designed for efficiency. Every surface gleams, waiting for the chaos of service to begin. We start by cleaning the already spotless counters, a ritual I require before any cooking begins.

Culinary school.

The memory surfaces as I move around the familiar territory of a professional kitchen. That scholarship came when I needed it most—seventeen, angry, in a foster home after Brick’s accident left him unable to work or keep custody of us. The social worker saw something in me, the way I always cooked for the younger kids. Said there was a program for at-risk youth with culinary interests.

The irony still makes me want to laugh. They thought they were saving me from a life of crime, but they actually gave me better tools for the life I was already living.

“We’ll start with the basics,” I tell her, pulling out the menu binder where I’ve compiled our opening offerings.

Rowan flips through the laminated pages, her expression thoughtful. “Simple but solid. Smart for a new place.”

I begin pulling ingredients from the walk-in fridge. We need to test the pancake batter to ensure consistency when cooked on these particular grills. Cooking is a science as much as an art, and variables like temperature, humidity, and equipment can dramatically change outcomes.

“Are you selectively dumb?” Rowan blurts, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean?—”

I don’t respond, focusing instead on measuring flour into a large mixing bowl. I’m used to people questioning my silence, wondering if something’s wrong with me because I don’t fill every moment with needless chatter.

But Rowan doesn’t let it drop. “I mean, how do you cope with a brother like Maddox? Surely he must drive you mad all the time, and you’d just want to scream at him to shut the hell up, right?”

I continue working, adding buttermilk to the batter. Let her wonder. Let her fill the silence. Most people do.

The kitchen fills with the sounds of preparation—whisks against metal, ingredients landing in bowls, the hum of the refrigerator. Rowan eventually stops waiting for an answer and starts working on her own tasks, measuring ingredients for the bread dough we need to start.

“I prefer listening to talking,” I finally say, my voice low. The words feel rusty, like they always do when I break my usual silence.

Her eyes light up when I respond, almost like she’s won a prize. The reaction makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

“I’m sorry I called you dumb,” she says, glancing at me from beneath dark lashes. “That was rude. My mouth runs ahead of my brain sometimes.”

I concentrate on whisking the batter, giving her a slight nod of acknowledgment. The apology is unexpected. Most people just assume my silence means there’s nothing worth hearing.

We work side by side for several minutes, a comfortable rhythm developing between us. She shifts slightly when I reach past her for salt, her arm brushing mine. The brief contact lingers on my skin.

“So,” she says after another few minutes, her tone deliberately casual. “You’ve been riding bikes a long time?”

I nod.

“Me too,” she admits, then winces slightly, like she’s said more than she intended. “I mean, I used to. Years ago.”

I suspected as much. The way she held onto me during the ride—tentative at first, but her body remembered even if her mind was rusty.

“You’re good at that,” she says, nodding toward the perfect consistency of the batter I’m mixing. “Did you always want to be a chef?”

The personal questions make my fingers tighten slightly around the whisk.

“Never mind,” she says quickly, noticing my reaction. “You don’t have to answer that. I’m just…trying to figure you out.”

The admission makes me look at her directly for the first time since we entered the kitchen. Her cheeks flush under my gaze, but she doesn’t look away. God, she’s so beautiful.

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