Page 113 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

“Okay,” she says, brisk as a drumbeat. “We go win a festival.”

The drive into Ravenwell is a winter postcard, glistening snow blankets wrapped around the winding road.

The men ride ahead and behind, bikes steady, jackets dark against the snow-bright morning.

Roman glances back at me in the rearview mirror and I feel the same thing I always feel when his gaze lands and stays.

I can breathe.

Deacon gives a little chin lift like a man who has checked every bolt on the road.

Cruz rides with his shoulders loose as if he can charm the weather into behaving.

Mae drives Cara and the twins in the second car, and from the movement in the rearview I can tell Luca is kicking like a chorus line. Gabe prefers to scowl at the cold.

They both wear ridiculous knit hats with ears because I am a mother and therefore allowed to weaponize cute.

The town square is already alive.

Fir boughs drape from storefronts.

Fairy lights loop from lamppost to lamppost.

The town band warms up in the gazebo with a tune that can’t decide if it is Joy to the World or the theme from a detective show.

The air smells like cinnamon, warm apples, and wood smoke.

Vendors call out names of sweets and soups.

Children run with paper cones of sugared nuts.

The competition tents line the courthouse steps, white canopies with tables underneath, power cords snaking like polite vines.

I find my placard and blink.

My name is misspelled by one letter and my station number does not match the one in my email.

For one second my pulse jumps, then a volunteer arrives, flustered and apologizing.

“Clerical error,” she says, making a face like she stepped in something small and annoying. “The spreadsheet crashed twice last night and printed an old version. Bakers, please stay at the numbers posted on the tents.”

My number is not the one I was assigned, but the tent is good.

Not a wind tunnel.

An outlet that looks like it knows how to be reliable.

I nod and unpack.

The stollen sits in its crate like a grandmother taking one last look at the family before walking into church.

I unwrap one loaf, brush it with a whisper of butter, and dust it lightly so the sugar catches the light.

For the live challenge I keep it simple.

The judges announced it yesterday: a small on-site bake to show skills beyond maturation and patience.

Ten portions. Forty-five minutes. Any style. I set out flour, eggs, sugar, butter, orange zest, and cardamom.