Page 101 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

I pipe neat lines as if the icing were structural, because Deacon has infected me.

Isla adds tiny silver dragees with a concentration that would solve world hunger.

We taste one before it is cool enough because restraint is overrated. It is good, very good.

She dances a small dance that involves elbows and a spin. I do not cry.

I pretend the oven made my eyes water.

Under the sweetness there is still the sharpness, but we are not pretending we do not taste it.

Roman keeps his distance.

When he speaks it is clipped, efficient, necessary.

He sits with his hands quiet where they used to reach.

He looks at my mouth, looks away, looks out the window as if the trees will explain things men cannot say.

I do not chase him.

I set another tray to cool and ask Cruz to pass the sugar.

Deacon stands at the sink fixing the sprayer with that small crease between his eyes that means he already solved something we have not discovered yet.

By late afternoon the light goes blue and then gray.

We eat bowls of stew with dumplings, simple and hot.

The twins lie on a quilt and practice rolling.

Luca manages a triumphant quarter-turn and looks personally offended by gravity.

Gabe holds my finger with a two-fisted grip as if I might float away.

I will not.

Not right now.

The cookies line the racks like troops.

Isla makes signs that sayCOOKIE FORTand tapes them to the counter with washi tape that smells like strawberries.

We clean as we go.

It never stays clean long, which is the point of a good kitchen.

I wear one of the lodge aprons, olive green with a big front pocket that holds a spare pacifier, a folded recipe card, and a wooden spoon that thinks it’s a wand.

Night comes early in these hills.

The twins rub their eyes.

Their mouths open on slow-motion cries.

Cruz gathers them both and starts their bedtime circuit.

Bath, oil, song, quiet rocking, the patient game of pat and pause.