Page 45 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

My first mouthful is hot and salty and bright with ginger.

I make a noise that might embarrass a person raised in a different kitchen.

“Do not apologize,” Deacon says, deadpan. “This room enjoys honest feedback.”

Cruz taps his chopsticks against his bowl and pushes the chili oil my way. “A little more,” he says. “You like danger.”

“I like flavor,” I answer.

Roman watches me eat with an expression that would be stern if the corners of his eyes did not soften. “Bread,” he says suddenly.

“Bread,” I echo, confused.

“For tomorrow,” he says. “Bread for men who are going to move wood in the morning.”

“Copy that,” I say automatically, then laugh. “You are not my captain.”

He gives me a look that says I am his something, which is unfair to my heart and very effective.

Deacon wipes chili oil from my lower lip with his thumb, then looks mildly pleased when I catch his wrist and lick the taste from his skin. “Terrible influence,” he says to no one.

“Honest influence.” I take another bite.

We talk about small things, which are not small.

Which toothpaste is currently banned because Isla says it tastes like sadness. Which hen is trying to boss Cleopatra and losing.

Which prospect set a record today for how many times a person can track snow into the kitchen without noticing.

The storm rearranges itself outside the windows like a dancer changing costumes.

The lodge pops and sighs.

My body softens.

My mind stops sorting itself into acceptable and not.

Cruz tells a story about Isla’s invented business plan for a cookie company that will also make flamethrowers because balance is important.

Deacon pretends not to smile while he asks if she has filed for a permit.

Roman says he will consider investing if she proves a market need.

I wash bowls after without being asked, because love is a stack of clean dishes as much as it is anything else.

Roman dries.

He is bad at it on purpose until I give him a face that says his theater is cute and unwelcome.

He improves.

Deacon puts leftovers in containers with labels that make sense to him and to no one else.

Cruz turns off the stove and presses the back of his hand to my forehead like a nurse, even though I am fine and he knows I am fine.

“It is late,” he says, voice softer now. “Come, mi cielo. We will get you to bed.”

The room upstairs is small and warm and smells like cedar, just as promised.