Page 142 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
We are brave too because we get to hand people napkins.
People like napkins from small hands.
It makes them remember things.
The old sisters from Hollow Glen sit in the corner window like they are in a picture frame.
They say, “Good morning, cherubs,” and we say, “Good morning, angels,” because we remember their names are not Angels but it is fun anyway.
They always argue about whose turn it is to pay.
Mama says the coffee is on the house if they stop flirting with her.
They do not stop; they only add compliments for her earrings.
A man with a green cap wants the corner lemon bar because it has personality.
We know about personalities.
Gabe says he is the brain; I am the cheer.
We switch when needed.
Today we are both something else.
Today we are official samplers.
We get half a morning bun each as wages. Wages is a word that means we work here.
“Deliveries at eleven,” Deacon says, making a box list in tiny neat letters. He writes: Pastor. Library. Firehouse.
He gives us a job nobody else gets: put the sweetest sticker in the corner of the box so the corners have company.
We do it exactly right. He nods like we built a bridge.
During the first rush the whole town shows up.
The road crew smells like cold and metal and they buy hand pies because
Cruz made them and that means they taste like comfort you can carry.
The teacher with the cat sweater buys two cinnamon twists and pretends she will share both; she will not.
The man who always looks surprised at kindness looks surprised at kindness and leaves a four-leaf clover on the tip plate, which Roman pretends is currency and says, “This buys one smile,” and the man takes it back and smiles like an apology for every time the world didn’t.
We stand on stools that sayLITTLE HELPERand hand out napkins when Mama says napkin.
We do not touch the cake server.
We do not touch the espresso machine.
We put four chocolate chips in exactly four cookies because the bench boy did not count right and left them naked.
We are knights rescuing cookies from nakedness.
A lady with big sunglasses comes in, looks around like the room might bite her, and then breathes out when she smells the stollen. “I have not smelled that since my grandmother,” she says.
“Mine too,” Mama says, and their eyes do the soft thing. Mama gives her a slice on the house because houses do that.
