Page 7 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

“Eat.” Cruz passes me a fork.

I do.

The lamb is tender enough to fall apart with barely a touch, the vegetables smoky-sweet, the salad sharp and bright with citrus.

My eyes close without my permission. “Okay,” I admit. “This was worth sitting down for.”

Roman gestures at the salad with his fork. “Kitchen’s calling it a Sicilian thing. Fennel, orange, olive oil, a little mint. Don’t tell them I said so, but it’s better than it looked in the prep photos.”

Deacon adds, “And the focaccia is from some grandmother in the village. The chef swore on his mother’s life it had to be on the menu.”

“Noted,” I say, making a mental list of what to hunt down before the night’s over.

Cruz leans back in his chair, watching me finish the last of the lamb. “Now you can tell me if your biscotti stands up to the rest of it.”

He pulls a small plate closer, two golden biscotti resting against a napkin.

He breaks one in half and offers it across, his fingers brushing mine.

The almond hits first, then the orange peel, then the whisper of cinnamon I folded in at three in the morning.

Before I can swallow, Roman swipes the other half, and Deacon just shakes his head like he saw it coming.

“Save some for the other guests, Navarro,” someone calls from the smoking line. Cruz lifts his biscotti in a lazy salute, earning a wave of laughter from the group.

When the plates are cleared, I return to my station, pulling candied orange peels into neat curls for the next wave of guests.

The three of them peel away to their roles—Cruz to the bar where a keg needs swapping, Roman toward a pair of men in suits who look like trouble, Deacon into the rain with a phone pressed to his ear.

The storm is still talking to itself overhead, but the air feels steadier now, anchored by the warmth of a meal I didn’t know I needed.

The reception leans into the friendly chaos.

The bride dances on the deck with her veil draped around her like river foam.

Children in wool socks throw pinecones at the fence and keep score with the kind of seriousness that belongs to games invented on the spot.

A clutch of bikers lights cigars beneath the overhang, arguing about which brand is loyal and which brand is for men who lie about their fathers.

Laughter hooks onto the smoke and hangs there.

I adjust whipped cream trying to slide into a smaller version of itself. I re-pipe a rosette that drooped. I steal a glance.

Roman stands near the tent pole with the water marks that look like a map.

His eyes break from a conversation and find my mouth like a magnet finds north.

He does not move.

It feels like a hand at my lower back all the same.

The generator coughs and the lights flicker.

No one panics.

Deacon is already there with a toolbox.

He kneels and opens the panel.