Page 74 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
I stack plates I do not need to stack.
I rinse a mug that is not dirty.
I smile at Cruz like I am not trying to shake information out of his kind face.
He squeezes my shoulder in a way that says he is sorry for secrets he did not choose.
Deacon stands too fast and says he should check the line by the south eave, which is a sentence he uses when he is leaving the room so no one has to watch him think.
Roman takes his cup and his quiet and sets both at the sink.
I am not a woman who enjoys being left out.
I am also not a woman who needs to be told twice when someone is trying not to alarm a mother who has had a bad few months.
I put the biscotti back in for the second bake. I turn the polenta pot down to low to keep it friendly.
I take my mug and walk toward the pantry for sugar because affection and adrenaline both require cookies later.
The pantry is cool and smells like cold stone and lemon oil.
The stollen sleeps on the top shelf under a tented red towel, dignified even at rest.
I try not to look directly at it because I am not ready for hope, not yet, even if Deacon’s block letters on the chalkboard made something that had been clenched in my chest sit down and drink water.
The cinnamon sticks are in a glass jar with a blue lid.
I take it down.
It is heavier than it should be.
At first I think someone double-stocked it, which would be a kindness because Cruz and Isla are both menaces with cinnamon.
I twist the lid.
It sticks. It gives.
The scent rushes out, warm and wild. Thin paper edges itself up between the sticks.
Paper does not belong here.
I set the jar on the shelf and lift out the paper with two fingers, careful not to scatter cinnamon onto the floor.
It is folded tight.
Someone took care.
The air goes thin in my ears.
I hear the stove tick.
Cruz laughs softly at something upstairs through the open stairwell.
Snow taps the window.
My hand is steady. My stomach is not.
I unfold it. The ink bites the page in a hand I do not know.
