Page 28 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Isla gets bored with adult rules after two rounds.
She declares that we will now play Christmas poker, which is her invention and therefore ruthless.
We bet with candy canes. If you fold at the wrong time, you drink hot chocolate from a shot glass and try to keep a straight face. If you lose to a bluff, you take a dare.
The dares are on slips of paper Isla folded like fortunes.
They range from harmless to ridiculous.
My first loss is on purpose because a room needs to laugh at a man who can sing.
The dare tells me to perform the high note from Mariah Carey while kneeling to the tree.
I give it my best, which is not good, and the men howl. Marisa laughs into her palm, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut.
I would lose twenty hands to hear that sound again.
Roman’s mouth softens, the smallest proof that he is listening even when he is not playing.
Deacon appears to have no weaknesses at cards and yet finds himself drinking three tiny cups of marshmallow vodka cocoa because he does not believe in Isla’s bluff face.
She takes this personally.
He tries to explain about tells and probabilities.
She tells him to pick a dare.
The dare has him wear the crocheted chicken apron for two hands. He ties it on without protest.
The room decides he looks distinguished.
We play until the candy cane economy collapses.
The pile in front of Marisa grows and shrinks in rhythms that would ruin a less patient person.
She is not unsteady, just learning when to risk and when to tuck her joy back into her chest to save for later.
I study her face the way I study a map.
Every time her smile warms and stays, my ribs loosen.
Every time it fades, I want to put it back where it belongs.
The storm gives a long sigh over the roof.
The henhouse door thumps as Cleopatra tests it and finds it worthy.
A prospect swears softly at the back door, snow spraying off his boots, then shuts the cold out with an apologetic cough.
The lodge breathes with us, big and old and forgiving.
Isla’s head droops.
She leans against Marisa’s arm and blinks like a cat at a sunny window.
The room softens at the edges, the way it does when it is almost time to put small people to bed.
I stand and hold out my hands.
