Page 115 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Power returns.
The madeleines finish their rise and crack at the top like blessed little shells.
Someone tries to bump my table in the rush of a photo op and a sack of flour tilts ominously.
Roman plants a hand on the corner and the flour decides to behave.
A vendor drops a tray near my foot and pretends not to notice.
Cruz lowers a shoulder with the gentle authority of a man who can remove your teeth and still apologize nicely.
The vendor finds interest in the far side of the square.
The twins arrive near the end, tucked into their stroller like marshmallows.
Cara parks them in a corner of the tent where the breeze is soft and the light makes their cheeks look edible.
Luca hiccups again.
Gabe scowls at a string of lights, then relents and flirts with a passing grandmother.
Isla ties a ribbon to the stroller that matches the one in my hair.
We are ridiculous and I love it.
Judging begins.
The head judge has the same skeptical mouth from a week ago.
He is already writing things in his head, probably words like rustic and earnest that magazines use when they don’t want to love a woman who isn’t apologizing.
I keep my hands still at my sides.
They taste the madeleines first because warm things should go first.
The spoon of glaze hits while the shell is still hot.
Cardamom lifts the orange.
Rum softens the sugar.
The judge chews.
His expression does something human.
He takes another bite, then another, as if he forgot how to be measured.
Then the stollen.
I slice with the good knife and hand over a plate with a piece the size of faith.
The sugar dust catches on my sleeve.
The scent pushes up like a memory.
The judge hesitates, looks at the crumb, then takes a bite.
Silence swells.
