Page 73 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
He laughs under his breath, takes a spoon, tastes the polenta, and closes his eyes for a second so he can mean the pleasure. “Brava,” he says. “Cara sends her love. She will come when the roads stop being dramatic. She told me to tell you to nap when the babies nap. Then she said you would not listen and to tell me to tell you again and although this advice is the biggest cliche in the book, if you’re light on work, use it.”
“She is right though,” I say. “I am terrible at surrender.”
He lifts a brow, still smiling. “We can coach.”
Roman returns while Cruz is filling mugs with cider.
He has a dusting of snow in his hair, which is illegal and unfair and makes my stomach go hot for reasons I would rather keep to myself.
He glances at the polenta like he is checking a gauge and nods.
Deacon follows behind him, shaking out a set of gloves that have suffered nobly.
His eyes find mine, then flick to the back door for a fraction of a beat.
There it is again.
The something they are not saying.
“Eat,” I say, and try to make it sound normal. “Before it sets up like concrete and you have to act grateful.”
Deacon obeys with suspicious speed.
He sets a plate down, and the way he sits makes me think he has been talking too long about something that matters and decided food will keep him from saying more.
Roman eats standing, fork in hand, attention swinging between the window and the stove and me. He sees everything. He is not saying anything.
Cruz tells a story about Isla trying to convince Mae’s beagle to wear a scarf. We laugh at the right places.
We chew.
The biscuit scents deepen behind us. It is almost fine.
Except it is not.
The room has a fault line no one mentions.
No one meets my eyes directly for more than a breath.
Cruz overpraises the polenta like a man who wants to carry a different subject in his mouth.
Deacon drinks his cider like wine and says it is excellent with the decision of a man who is putting markers down for later.
Roman’s silence speaks three languages at once and none of them can translate what is wrong into a sentence I can take apart with a knife.
“What did I miss,” I ask finally, because pretending to be simple is not my gift. “Is the roof mad at you? Did the generator say something impolite? Did the chickens unionize? I can tell there is a meeting I did not attend.”
Cruz opens his mouth and closes it.
He reaches for my hand then lets it fall back to the table and puts it to work straightening a napkin instead.
Deacon clears his throat and says something about a camera freezing that is so unimportant his voice transforms it into an altar.
Roman looks directly at me, just for a second, then past me to the pantry, which is a worse answer than anything he could have delivered with words.
“Okay,” I say.
My throat tightens. I swallow it down with cider that suddenly tastes like it was poured two days ago.
