Page 20 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
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MARISA
ONE YEAR LATER, BROOKLYN
Brooklyn wakes like an old cat, slow and a little grumpy.
The trattoria downstairs bangs pans and argues in Italian that smells like garlic.
Radiator ticking. Steam on the window.
I am barefoot in an apron with orange zest under my nails, lining up tasting spoons beside a cooling rack of loaves.
My phone buzzes with two missed calls from Nico and a text from my aunt about nice girls and Christmas Mass.
I silence the phone, straighten a stack of pastry boxes, and tell myself the day will be quiet.
Footsteps climb my stairs. Heavy on the outside edge. A pause. Three knocks that sound like rent due.
I open the door because I was raised to be polite.
My stepbrother Cristiano Nico Conte fills the frame, cheeks pink from the cold, snow caught in the cuffs of a jacket he refuses to zip.
“Brought muffins,” he says, already stepping past me.
He sets a grocery bag on my counter and wipes his palms on his jeans like generosity is work. “Playing chef must keep you from eating.”
“Playing,” I repeat, setting out a plate. My voice stays even. I stack the muffins like evidence. “Wrong kitchen.”
He drags out a chair and sits without asking.
He leans back and takes up space that is not his. “You are wasting your time in an apron when you could be settling down.”
I smooth the edge of my towel and meet his eyes. “I like my apron. It pays my rent.”
He picks at the paper wrapper, crumbs flaking to the floor. “A good man will not want a woman on everyone’s catering calendar.”
“A good man tips and reads his own calendar,” I say, sliding the plate toward him and keeping my hand on it until he looks up.
He snorts and reaches anyway. “Ma would cry if she saw how you live.”
“My grandmother baked for the church and told the priest when he was out of line,” I say, steady as a metronome. “She would cry because you brought supermarket muffins.”
He bites and chews like the muffin wronged him. “You used to be sweet.”
I smile without showing teeth. “I am still sweet. I just do not let men take bites without asking.”
His lips press into a thin line of disapproval, and he shoves the half-eaten muffin back into the bag. “It’s a hobby, Marisa. Not a life.”
I walk to the door and curl my fingers around the knob. “The door is very good at its job. Watch.”
He stands so fast the chair legs screech. “Family cannot even give advice.”
“Advice is not an eviction notice. You can’t force it on me.” I pull the door open, and he shoulders past me. His jacket clips the rosemary on the sill.
The pot leaps, hits tile, and cracks down one side.
We both look at it.
