Page 59 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

Roman stands back two paces from the fire, hands in his pockets, eyes on the threshold.

We move.

Babies to the kitchen table, Cruz already murmuring nonsense that means everything as he warms small feet and small wrists in stages.

“Back where you belong,” he tells one, and the baby considers breathing, then chooses it.

The noise that comes out of that small body is beautiful.

Marisa to the wool throw, blanket across shoulders. “Small sips,” I remind her. “Slow. You will want to gulp like a hero. Do not.”

Prospects bring the tote and the diaper bag like they are approaching an altar.

I lift the towel and the top crust on the loaves has set with a crack I would fight someone to preserve.

The room fills with orange peel and rum and the clean almond that says someone toasted, not burned.

“Cold pantry,” I tell Wren. “Top shelf. Towel tent. Check the sugar. We will refresh the glaze in two days if the schedule holds. Stollen improves with rest, it was built to survive this.”

He grins because this is the kind of sermon I give. “Yes, sir.”

Hox sets the diaper bag and then hovers a second longer than necessary by the stollen. I give him a look. He reddens like a guilty oven and backs away.

I turn, take in the room the way I take in a build site.

Fire steady, draft pulling right. Power lines humming, not complaining.

Prospects’ boots left in the mudroom, thank god. Cruz bare-chested under an open flannel, doing a miracle with a bowl and a heartbeat.

Roman a fixed point with heat tucked under steel.

Marisa on the wool throw with her hands open on her knees like she is bracing for a verdict in a language she understands.

“Festival,” Roman says without looking at me.

“Canceled today,” I answer. “Rescheduled when the storm tidies up. We will keep the loaves right until then. They will be better for the rest. We deliver when the plows say we can and the square lights back up.”

The bread she has baked needed maturing anyway, so the more time she gives it, the better her shot at the competition.

Marisa turns her head toward me, small and grateful and startled. “You will help me deliver?” she says, like she does not quite believe we are speaking the same language.

“We do not let a storm eat a future,” I say. “You baked. I will move things. In a few days we will put your bread on the table at Ravenwell and let them write your name in ink.”

Her mouth trembles one degree and she tucks it away. I respect that. Pride is a structure worth preserving.

Cruz wraps a warm towel around a tiny calf and the baby sighs like a man who has decided to live. “Good,” Cruz says, smiling down. “That is it. Tell me all your complaints, pequeño. I will file them in triplicate.”

Wren comes back from the pantry and taps the thermometer on his wrist like a show-off. “Pantry is holding at sixty-three.Towel tented. Sugar dry. I cracked the door once to keep it from sweating.”

“Do it again in an hour,” I say. “You are earning your keep.”

I write a line on the chalkboard by the stove:Ravenwell: stollen delivery for competition, storm delay,and circle it so no one can pretend they did not see.

Hox swallows and looks proud of the circle like he drew it.

I should be gentle.

I am not built to be first at gentle.