Page 72 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
He takes a small cup of espresso as if the machine did it for him out of respect and drinks it in one neat swallow.
He looks at the cold brew jar like it personally offended someone he loved and lets it live, which is almost funny.
He says nothing.
His hand finds the back of one of the kitchen chairs and rests there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he goes toward the mudroom like a question walking on two legs.
Cruz is upstairs.
I can hear a low voice and a laugh from a phone on speaker and it belongs to a woman who has done this before.
Cara, he said.
A friend who knows babies and loved Isla when Isla was small and Cruz was trying to do everything right with diction and a bib.
I smile.
I cannot help it.
Even when the men are tight with secrets, they keep their promises where it counts.
Deacon has not come in from the barn, which means he is on the roof or crawling along the eaves pretending to repair what he decided might fail in a storm.
If I go looking, he will tell me it is fine.
He will say he is simply moving water in a better direction.
He will have a screwdriver behind his ear and snow in his beard and his eyes will flick past my shoulder toward the line of sight to the pantry door and I will not like that.
I put polenta on plates, one big dish for the table, one small bowl for me to taste.
I drizzle it with peppered olive oil and set crisp bacon on a tray because I am not here to watch anyone pretend they do not want fat and salt when they are scared.
I pour a small glass of cider and let the steam kiss my face.
I cut the biscotti logs and lay them on their sides for the second bake.
The knife slides clean.
The almond crumb smiles.
I am not superstitious, but I take what I can get.
Footsteps come down the hall.
Cruz appears first, soft shirt and warm smile and the kind of face that makes a person hand over a baby without reading the clipboard.
He sets a hand on the door frame like he is telling the wood to keep doing its best and then crosses the kitchen to kiss my cheek.
It is a brief, not at all complicated kiss.
It makes my eyes burn anyway.
“Morning, chef,” he says. “Smells like a person who knows the difference between comfort and an apology.”
“I am cooking so I do not climb the walls,” I say, lines of my mouth trying to decide if they want to be brave or mean. “You look like someone who slept three hours and could take on God with a spatula.”
