Page 2 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

He takes the crate from me with a kind of quiet decisiveness that makes arguing impossible.

It doesn’t even look heavy in his hands, and something about the ease in his movement is irritatingly attractive.

“Thank you,” I manage, although I’m still slightly annoyed.

“You always thank people for winning?”

I blink at him, caught between wanting to roll my eyes and keeping him here just to see what else he’ll say.

But he’s already walking into the tent, and my only option is to follow because the crate is gone and my hands feel empty without it.

I’m hit by the scents of pine, damp silk, whiskey, and wet leather inside.

String lights sag with rainwater and still try to glow, the stubborn little things. Whiskey barrels double as cocktail tables.

The bride’s veil is tangled in the rafters like a mischievous ghost.

A pair of bikers argue about whether the storm will flood the road.

Somewhere in the corner, a man with silver in his beard is coaxing life out of a dying generator.

The man in black sets the crate on my folding table and glances at the trays already there—tiny lemon tarts, almond biscotti, and dark chocolate tartlets wearing crowns of sugared berries. “You make all these?”

“Yes.” I slide past him to start triage on the sugar roses drooping under the humidity.

“They look good,” he says then corrects himself, “They look too good for this crowd.”

“Maybe they’ll behave themselves if they’re eating.”

“Doubt it.” There’s a ghost of a smile now, like he might actually enjoy seeing the chaos play out.

He studies me for a beat, eyes storm-gray and too steady, then nods toward the desserts. “Roman, but I also go by Saint.”

“Marisa,” I answer, and his name settles into the air like the start of something I’m not ready to name.

Roman sets my crate on the table and steps back, and his gaze brushes mine in a way that feels like a test he’s not grading yet.

Then he’s gone, swallowed by wet light.

I'm flustered, so I tackle it the only way I know how to and get to work.

I work like the sky dared me to stop.

I grab the final trays from my car then blot moisture from fondant with the edge of a paper towel, trying to make it look affectionate.

I dust tartlets with a veil of powdered sugar that lands like new snow on a city that has not seen winter yet.

I run a knife tip along the edge of a chocolate star and coax it upright with the patience of a woman who believes sugar will listen if you speak to it kindly.

I turn the panna cotta cups to hide the worst of the condensation rings.

Come on, ragazze, hold your shape. Hold your nerve,I whisper under my breath because I talk to food when I’m scared.

At this precise moment, a very large hand dangles a towel in front of me.

The towel is blessedly dry, which feels like sorcery after the last ten minutes of rain dripping from my hair in slow, treacherous rivulets toward the trays.

I’ve been trying to shake it back without touching anything, pretending I’m not silently panicking about hygiene while the storm turns my braid into a sponge.