Page 99 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Downstairs the kitchen is already busy.
Cornbread sits in a cast iron skillet, edges pulling away, top split.
A pot of beans simmers with a ham hock and enough bay leaf to make the room smell like someone meant to take care of you.
On the stove a skillet hash of potatoes and onions and sweet peppers snaps happy noises at the butter.
There is a pitcher of maple butter catching the light like gold. And coffee.
Always coffee.
The machine hisses.
The tiny cups line up like soldiers Roman would not admit he loves.
A glass jar sits in the back corner, iced and innocent. Deacon drags a knuckle across the condensation and does not look guilty at all.
“Good morning,” he says, handing me a cup that could fuel an army.
“Good morning,” I answer. “You look like you slept sitting up with a wrench.”
“I did,” he says, without shame. “We had a transformer blow near the Ravenwell community hall. Plows had to focus on the hospital road. Judges got stuck at a motel along the Thruway with a vending machine diet and a very loud ice maker. Festival committee postponed the competition a week so vendors can get deliveries out of the valley and the venue can serve as a warming shelter today. Logistics, not malice.”
“A week,” I repeat, letting the heat from the cup sink into my fingers. “That is almost enough time to improve the sugar glaze.” I pretend the first feeling that hits me is annoyance. It is not. It is relief that looks exactly like hope when it changes clothes.
Cruz appears with Gabe in the sling, striped socks peeking, hair standing in soft loops. “He burped like a champion,” he announces. “Luca is working on his memoir.”
“A man of letters,” I say. Luca lolls on my shoulder and immediately drools down the back of my sweater. “Never mind, a man of spit. Distinguished.”
Roman comes in from the mudroom at that moment.
Snow dusts his hair.
His jaw is a hard line, and his eyes are a darker gray than coffee spoons.
He sets a glove on the radiator and it steams.
Our gazes catch for a heartbeat that lasts two, three, enough to bruise.
He looks away first.
It is not a victory I enjoy.
We eat like a crew that knows how to be strong together even when their feelings are rowdy.
Cornbread split and slathered with maple butter so soft it sighs.
Hash topped with eggs poached until the whites hold and the yolk runs like an apology you actually mean.
Beans ladled into bowls and finished with a curl of good olive oil.
Cruz kisses the maple off Gabe’s toes because a sock did not stand a chance.
Deacon pours a small glass of cold brew like he is performing a magic trick and takes a slow sip while Roman pretends to develop a mysterious interest in the weather report.
I hand Roman an espresso without asking, because sometimes peace is in a cup.
“You are all right,” he asks, voice measured.
