Page 114 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
I pick madeleines because they are quick and honest. A good madeleine is a heartbeat with a crust.
It is also a quiet way to tie the new to the old.
The first hiccup arrives in the form of a festival official with a clipboard and a worried brow. “We are missing your updated sanitation certificate,” she says. “I cannot put you through to judging without it.”
“I filed that a week ago,” I say. My voice stays level because yelling at a clipboard never made a problem smaller. “It was accepted.”
She taps the screen and shows me a red X.
In the corner of the screen there is a notation that saysFILE CORRUPTED.
A clerical error again, or something less innocent.
Before I can swallow my annoyance, Deacon materializes like a tall ghost with a printer.
He pulls a folder from his messenger bag and slides the paper across the table.
He has the acceptance email printed and the certificate clipped behind it. He smiles without showing teeth.
“Keep your originals,” he says to the official. “We like to file in triplicate.”
She blinks, relieved. “I do too,” she confesses and stamps my placard with a green check.
The second hiccup is theatrical. A rule steward wanders by and says, “Pre-baked goods must be prepared on site,” with the tone of a person who learned power late and wears it like a hat two sizes too big.
“Stollen is matured,” I reply. “The rules allow matured entries with proof of production steps. I have logs and ingredient receipts.”
Roman steps in then, not looming, just present. “Page seven,” he says in that soft voice that makes people behave. “Paragraph three. Subsection b. ‘Traditional matured holiday breads maybe prepared off-site. Entrants must provide proof of date and method.’”
The steward flushes, flips pages, and finds the exact sentence. “Correct,” she says quickly, then she flees toward a kettle corn stand as if caramel can absolve embarrassment.
I breathe.
Cruz hands me a water bottle with a sticker that says drink me like a dare. “How is your heart?” he asks, quiet and close.
“Rude,” I say. “It keeps trying to leave my chest and go flirt with the judges.”
“Tell it to stay where it is loved,” he says, tapping my sternum with one knuckle. “Also tell it to taste the batter first.”
I laugh and whisk.
The batter comes together with a silkiness that promises lift. Butter foams in the pan.
I brush the scalloped molds and pour with care. Isla appears with a small bag of freshly milled sugar she bartered for with two hand-drawn coupons for “one free chicken story.” She taps the bag like a magician doing the reveal.
“Insurance,” she says. “In case the powdered sugar here tastes like sadness.”
“You are my favorite chaos agent,” I tell her.
The third hiccup is practical and smells like disappointment.
My power outlet dies mid-bake with a small click.
The madeleines sit pale and stunned in their tray.
I look at the cord, at the box, and back of the oven.
Panic scratches the inside of my throat, then Deacon kneels at the pole and resets the GFCI like he has been waiting for it to fail just so he can save the day.
