Page 24 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

Same old enamel stove that smokes on the back burner but makes the best cornbread.

Same long table scarred with knives and laughter.

Same chalkboard grocery list with more bacon underlined twice.

A thermos sits on the counter with condensation on its side.

Roman looks at it like a man considering whether to banish a sinner.

Deacon unscrews the lid with a reverent calm and pours.

The smell of cold brew climbs up.

Roman makes a sound between a sigh and a prayer for patience.

“You do this to punish me,” he says.

“I do it because you are predictable.” Deacon sips without blinking.

“Blasphemy,” Roman replies.

“It is coffee,” Deacon answers, his voice mild enough to be a blade. “We are not at Mass.”

Cruz leans against the counter, sets Isla on a stool with a promise of cookies to come, and opens the carrier with a flourish. “She brought the good potatoes,” he says. “You can smell the rosemary from here.”

“I also have braised beef, spiced carrots, and a salad that wants to be taken seriously.” I set the containers out. “Please pretend you do not see the extra tray of bourbon pecan bites.”

“Never pretend we do not see bourbon pecan bites,” Cruz says solemnly.

He tilts his head toward the pantry with exaggerated casualness. “There is nothing behind the third brick on the left, and if there were, it would be mine, and if I tasted cinnamon that was not mine, I would pretend I did not.”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” I say, equally solemn. “I would never adjust a man’s secret recipe on moral grounds.

However, if a person were to balance the cinnamon by a whisper, that person would be correct.”

Roman watches us and the storm in his eyes settles by a degree.

He looks down at my hands as if counting the small tremors then looks away not because he does not see but because he does.

Deacon ticks off the containers on his clipboard with pleasure he does not announce.

When he gets to the stollen he pauses.

“This belongs on the cover of something,” he says.

“It belongs in your mouth,” I answer. “Then on the cover.”

We work in a shared quiet that holds jokes like marbles in a pocket.

I arrange the buffet, Cruz sets plates like a man who can make a table into a welcome with two gestures, Deacon adjusts the chafers and pretends not to smile when Isla steals a carrot and calls it practice, Roman moves the things that are heavy without being asked.

People from neighboring cabins come in with cheeks red from the cold and kisses that land on foreheads.

Someone plugs in a string of Christmas lights shaped like tiny motorcycles and the kitchen forgives them for the kitsch.

I do not mean to stay.

I tell myself I will leave after the trays are empty and the last person licks sugar from a thumb.