Page 136 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
She composes them into roses and then into swans and then into little motorcycles that look a lot like ducks, and I tell her they are perfect every time because perfection is a moving target and I want her to think she can hit anything she aims at.
Marisa moves through the room like music you recognize by the first bar.
Grace and sass, both sharpened by long practice and good sleep.
She pours coffee for the two old sisters from Hollow Glen who sit in the corner window every Wednesday and argue tenderly about whose turn it is to pay.
“On the house if you stop flirting with me,” she tells them, and they both preen, and I try very hard not to look as if my bones are sighing with joy.
Deacon fixed the bell last week so it trills instead of clangs—he said the clang was an assault and the trill was an invitation.
He is in the back now, oiling the hinge on the proofing cabinet like it is a mechanism designed to hold the world together.
Roman stands at the little brass machine we smuggled out of a city café with a wink and a wad of cash; he pulls espressos like he is giving absolution, refuses to make anything ending in -cchiato unless he is in the mood, and hands them over with that look that means he will fight you for your soul if you try to drink cold brew in his presence.
“Your crema is smug,” I tell him, leaning an elbow on the bar.
“Your molé is sinful,” he says without glancing up, “and I do not confess to either.”
“Boys under the counter,” Deacon calls mildly from the back. “Little scouts approaching the bakery case flank.”
“Copy,” I say, sliding a foot out to block Luca’s exploratory beeline for the glass.
He veers, giggles, babbles a string of syllables that end in a triumphant “ba!” Gabe taps the case, assesses the crumb structure of the morning buns with the gravity of a man three times his size, and crawls away.
Cara sweeps in at ten with a basket of clean linens and a story about a fox that watched her hang them.
She smells like lavender and woodsmoke and good decisions. “My babies,” she says, kissing the tops of both boys’ heads, then my cheek, then Roman’s temple because she enjoys watching him pretend he is not soft. “We need two high chairs that clip to the counter,” she declares, already measuring with her eye. “Deacon, your list grows.”
“My list is a garden,” Deacon answers, appearing with a screwdriver tucked behind one ear. “It appreciates water and restraint.”
“Restraint is not my hobby,” she says. “Coffee is.” Roman hands her a cup before she asks.
Outside, the ridge wears spring like a second skin.
The hens strut the edge of the gravel; Cleopatra and Biscotti are still sworn enemies and communicate exclusively in insults.
Isla designed the bakery logo and convinced Deacon to make it stained glass for the door: a cupcake riding a motorcycle, candy cane lance at the ready, rimmed in gold.
It glows whenever the sun shifts just right and every single time it happens, the old men in caps go quiet like they got the wind knocked out of them by joy.
We run on ritual now.
We open early enough that the road crews wave when they pass.
We pull the first sheet of orange–almond scones at seven thirty.
We sell out of croissant-crusted quiche by eleven because word traveled faster than gossip, which is saying something.
At noon, I slide a pan of savory hand pies into the oven because I do not know how not to feed people meat.
Roman pretends to be put upon by the smell and then eats two with his back to the espresso machine like a teenager hiding contraband.
Deacon annotates the wall calendar with pencil and engineering print and sighs with contentment when a neat box appears around a to-do list.
Cara hums lullabies to the bread.
The day flows like honey.
