Page 9 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

I look up and no one is there. The lid twists off with a hiss. Steam curls out with the scent of orange peel and I smile.

I wrap both hands around the thermos and drink.

The heat slides down my throat and lands in my stomach like mercy.

I look out over the party with the thermos against my lower lip and wonder which of them is responsible.

Cruz would have brought it and waited to watch me take the first sip.

Deacon would have placed it exactly where my hand would find it and walked away because the gesture is the point, not the gratitude.

Roman would have left it in silence because his attention feels like something private he prefers not to be accused of.

The mystery warms me almost as much as the coffee.

Pinecones bounce along the fence like small comets.

The deck shakes under a line dance that is more commitment than choreography.

The storm pinches itself into a mist that lifts and settles and lifts again, like the mountain taking long breaths.

The lodge stands with its broad shoulders and its history, and for a moment I love it in the way you love an old building that has kept secrets and will keep yours if you ask kindly.

“Try me,” Cruz says, sliding back into my orbit with the ease of someone who understands tides.

He takes two tarts and offers one back with exaggerated formality. His eyes laugh even before his mouth does.

I accept because I want to touch his fingers again and because the softness of the moment balances the steadiness I feel from the other two.

“You know you’re stealing,” I say.

“I am returning,” he answers. “You feed me. I feed you. This is the circle of life.”

“Very biblical,” I say, and he smiles with a tilt that tells me he knows exactly how my words are meant.

The band drops into a song that sounds like a night out that almost ruined you in a good way.

Roman shifts his stance at the edge of the tent and the air shifts with him.

A patch of clear sky opens above the ridgeline like a benediction.

Someone releases a handful of paper lanterns on the far side of the field.

They lift in low drift, their light a soft spine climbing the dark.

I wipe chocolate from a cake stand and try not to think about what it would feel like to lean back against a man like those who surround me.

The night slides along.

The tents drip in slow silver lines and the decks glow under slick boards.

The bride yells that the cake is cursed and then kisses the groom like a woman who enjoys cursing.

The ring bearer falls asleep in a pile of coats and is covered by three different vests like a quilt.

Cleopatra the hen stages a coup for a plate of coleslaw and must be bribed with a biscuit named after a woman Roman does not speak to anymore.

Someone sings a Christmas song off key.