Page 141 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

She sings with her hands because even when she stirs, she tells stories.

The song smells like heaven and oranges.

The kitchen air is sugar and warm butter and the sound of the wooden spoon hitting the bowl like a heartbeat you can eat.

Papa Cruz lifts us one at a time to the big mixing bowl. “Taste,” he says, and this is the best word.

He gives us each a finger to clean like a small spoon. The frosting is cloud-soft and sweet and it sticks to our lips. “Good?” he asks.

“Good is not enough,” I say. “It is yummiest.”

“Scientific,” Gabe says, approving, and licks the whisk so carefully some angels probably clap.

Papa Deacon shows us how to stack muffins into a castle that has a moat made of napkins and a drawbridge that is a butter knife you are not allowed to touch.

“Structures have feelings,” he tells us. “Be kind to the corners.” We are.

We tuck the muffins in like babies. Gabe raises a wall against dragons.

I put a blueberry on top for decoration and also because it can be a moon.

Papa Roman pretends not to smile when we sprinkle cinnamon on the dog by accident. “Churro is not a pastry,” he says, but Churro sneezes and looks proud.

Papa Roman wipes the dog with a towel and tells Mama in his quiet not-quite-smile voice that we were assisting with aromatics.

He makes tiny coffee that smells like bravery and says cold brew is for men who have given up on hope.

Papa Deacon drinks cold brew later very calmly while reading a book about bridges and does not look at Roman at all.

This is called a running joke. It can run around the table during breakfast and no one will catch it.

Isla comes in with her hair like a cloud and her socks in a fight with gravity.

She braids Gabe’s hair into something she calls wizard-core and tells him that wizards must eat blueberries for spell health.

She gives me two braids too because I ask very nicely and offer to give her all the cherries I am allowed, which is zero.

I eat a cherry off the tart anyway and hide under the table.

The table is not surprised; I hide there a lot.

Cara ties on her old apron that has a stain in the shape of a bear if you squint.

She kisses our heads and says, “Mis amores, we have a line already.”

She says there is a fox down by the orchard who listens to Mama singing, which makes me want to sing fox songs.

Gabe says we do not speak fox, but we can try.

We help carry the baskets out front.

The bell on the bakery door trills instead of clanging because Deacon says trills are friendlier.

The window glass fogs and clears because the oven is breathing.

Our stained-glass logo rides the light: a cupcake on a motorcycle with a candy cane lance, Isla’s drawing turned into church.

The cupcake looks brave.