Page 5 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
The lemon bars are still sweating but only in a way that makes their sugar glitter.
My sugared rose petals have been resurrected with a whisper and a prayer and a few careful twists of the wrist.
I have patched, dabbed, turned, and coaxed every plate into a version of itself that deserves a wedding.
Beyond the dessert table the party staggers into life. A line of bikers clink glasses like armor.
Girls in satin bridesmaid dresses kick off their heels and run barefoot along the deck, squealing when the cold water hits their ankles.
A child with a crown made of pine needles sprints past, clutching a dinner roll like treasure.
Through the open flap I can see the lodge beyond the tents, a hulking timber body with a soul that looks like it has survived winters and men and prayer.
Smoke rises from a chimney and blends with the storm.
“Careful of the chickens,” a woman says as she passes, balancing a tray of tiny hot dogs like a circus act. I blink at her.
“The what?” Ihadpresumed the little girl was talking about imaginary chickens.
“The hens,” she says with the weary pride of someone who has negotiated with them. “Mean as tax day. Named after Saint’s exes. Do not show fear and do not run.”
She pauses just long enough to hitch her chin toward the men who’ve been circling my table like I’m worth the trouble. “Speaking of mean when they want to be—those three? Lodge owners. And bikers. The kind that still put in miles when there’s snow on the mountain and ice on their beards.”
I add the note to the list inside my head.
Sugar, cardamom, wet linen, thunder-eyed man, silver-bearded man, warm-eyed man, and a squad of aggressive hens named after the exes of Saint.
It feels like a recipe that might change me.
“The tall one with the storm face and the leather vest under his coat? Roman Saint Salvatore. Runs the security end, used to race before he got tired of being chased. The one with that tidy beard is Deacon. Handles logistics and keeps everyone in line, which is why no one’s dared start a fight near the cake table. And the smiley one who looks like he could talk the hens into laying golden eggs is Cruz. He runs the bar, the lodge kitchen when it’s not rented out, and half the hearts in this county.”
The woman leans in just enough for me to smell onions and mustard from her tray.
“Don’t let them rope you into drinking contests or charity rides unless you’re ready to lose. And if they offer to fix your car, your roof, or your whole damn life…well. That’s how they keep people around.”
She’s gone before I can reply.
With a shake of my head, I resume work in the corner while the storm and the song make their own vows.
People drift up to the table and take a tartlet and tell me nothing at all with their mouths full.
The band leans into an old ballad with a steel guitar that sounds like a promise.
A woman with glittered eyelids asks if she can hold my piping bag because she used to bake with her grandmother on Sundays, and when I hand it to her, she pipes a perfect rosette then wipes a tear with the back of her wrist.
I think I will never stop loving my job, even when my shoes are ruined and my hair is wetter than the tablecloth.
“Marisa.” My name tastes different in that voice, darker and sweeter all at once.
I turn and Roman is back.
He’s holding one of my sugared rose petals between two fingers like a relic.
The petal glitters, and his gaze is unreadable.
Up close I can see the saints inked inside the leather of his skin, the way rain beads on the curve of his jaw, the neatness at the corners of his mouth that argues with the wildness in his eyes.
“I wanted to see if it would dissolve,” he says and sets the petal on his tongue. The sugar melts slow. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, and when he opens them I see a man who has tasted too many bitter things and has not forgotten any of them. “It holds,” he says. “Barely. Which is sometimes the point.”
