Page 143 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

The lady eats it slow and closes her eyes. She leaves with a bag and the kind of smile that makes a day last longer.

There is one almost-problem.

A boy who is bigger than us but still not big tells us that motorcycles are for mean people and that bakeries are for nice people and we cannot have both.

We blink at him.

“We can,” I say.

“We do. We are multiple.” Gabe says, very serious, “Our papas make rules that say be kind or be gone. And also no cold brew in the house, except in secret.”

The boy thinks about that and then takes a free sample and leaves without deciding.

Cara says sometimes people need to think on sweetness.

After the rush, we deliver boxes.

The pastor on the hill thanks us for feeding his people.

He gives us a blessing that feels like sun.

At the library, we whisper like proper citizens and give Ms. Lane a cinnamon roll.

She whispers back that books smell like everything and now her desk smells like cinnamon and she is not mad.

We take hand pies to the firehouse and the firefighters lift us like kettlebells, which makes Roman raise one eyebrow and makes Mama say, “Careful,” and makes us giggle anyway.

When we get back, the hens are taking a meeting by the steps. Cleopatra and Biscotti argue in clucks about property lines.

We throw them old bread diplomacy.

Churro carefully sits with his back to them like a man pretending he does not care about hens.

He cares very much.

Inside, Roman is pouring tiny coffees and judging no one, except one man who says, “Got any cold brew?” and Roman says, “We have hope,” and hands him an espresso instead.

Deacon takes a jar and labels itFor Dreamsand puts everyone’s wishes inside on slips of paper.

I write “A dragon,” and Gabe writes “A telescope,” and Isla writes “A flamethrower empire,” because balance is important.

At noon-thirty we get frosting before lunch because the house is in a generous mood.

We lick spoons like musicians and look at each other with blue tongues.

Mama wipes our faces with the back of her hand and then kisses the frosting anyway.

She does not fear sugar transfer.

She says, “Mi zucchero,” and we glow so hard we almost light the room.

Nap happens and then doesn’t.

We pretend to nap and instead plan the bakery castle defense.

Deacon brings in blocks and shows us buttresses.

“These keep things standing when the wind thinks it is funny,” he says.