Page 100 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

“I am upright,” I say. “Thank you for the guard dog routine.”

He nods, once.

His hands rest quiet on his knees.

Those hands used to reach for me without checking who was watching.

I take a bite of cornbread that tastes like a song to keep from saying something we cannot afford.

An hour later, the front door flies open and Isla arrives like a comet.

Her cheeks are pink from cold and joy.

Snow drips off her jacket and makes little maps on the floor.

She sees me and there is no pause, no calculation, no check. She launches into my arms, almost bowling me backward into the pantry.

“You came back,” she says into my neck, the words muffled, as if I had just gone down the drive for flour instead of a year of bad dreams. “I knew you would. I told Daddy you would. I told Cleopatra you would. We made a bet.”

“What did Cleopatra wager?” I hold her tight. Joy blooms in my ribs and refuses to be tidy.

“A feather,” she says with grave importance. “And two seeds. She paid up. Do not tell her I told you or she will peck my shoelace.”

I kiss her hair, inhaling cocoa and snow and shampoo. My eyes sting. “Our secret,” I whisper.

The rest of the day attempts to be normal.

It fits, then slips, then fits again.

The men rotate twins like a well-rehearsed troupe.

Deacon swears he does not sing then sings low nonsense that steadies their eyes.

Cruz carries both boys in a way that makes the rest of us stand a little taller without admitting it.

Roman replaces a section of exterior trim with a precision that looks like anger and might just be care wearing a different shirt.

In the kitchen Isla and I bake gingerbread.

She insists candy cane shards belong in the batter for crunch.

I say we will test two batches because science.

She smashes the canes with what can only be described as zeal while wearing the crocheted chicken apron.

The apron clucks at me in judgment.

I dust her nose with flour.

She dusts mine back and shrieks as if a war has begun.

The men pretend not to look in with soft faces.

I catch them anyway.

We roll dough and cut shapes.

Stars, trees, a motorcycle that looks more like a hedgehog but is loved fiercely for its intentions.