Page 117 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
We pack slow.
We share slices with two city workers who have been refilling salt buckets all morning.
We give the band a tray of madeleines and listen to their fiddler flirt with O Holy Night.
My apron is dusted with sugar and a little glory. My hands smell like orange peel and rum.
At the edge of the square, I catch a shadow pausing where the lights do not quite reach.
It is nothing and it is something.
He is already turning away by the time I focus. I taste metal and swallow it.
On the way to the parking lot, Roman touches my wrist. It is brief and careful and still manages to ground me like a nail in a beam. “You did that,” he says.
“We did,” I answer.
It turns into a promise as it leaves my mouth.
I am tired of running.
I will stay. I will bake. I will feed.
I will find whoever keeps unscrewing the light bulbs in my house and I will teach them about candles.
We drive back under a sky that is the color of cold steel and new beginnings.
The ribbon rides in my pocket like a warm coin.
The babies sleep.
Isla sings to the flashlight as if it can appreciate harmonies.
Cara texts a prospect to put the kettle on.
The bikes run clean.
The lodge lights appear through the trees like a map you can trust.
I am not done being scared.
But I am done letting fear choose my route.
The flavor of victory is home.
It sticks to your ribs.
It keeps you warm when some man with a nice jacket and bad intentions thinks he can make you small.
He cannot. Not anymore.
Back in the lodge, as I hold the ribbon over the kitchen table, Roman’s phone buzzes.
He looks down and his face closes like a book.
He walks to the back room without a word.
I wipe sugar from my sleeve and tell myself not to follow.
