Page 116 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
The square holds its breath the way a person does when they are thinking of Christmases they pretended to forget.
He closes his eyes.
When he opens them, they are not skeptical.
He nods once.
The other judges follow, then one asks to see my log.
I show her the dates, the temperature notes, the brush schedule.
She smiles like a woman recognizes a woman.
“Your grandmother would be proud,” she says, and my eyes sting all at once.
The ribbon finds my hand.
Blue.
Deep as evening.
The sound that rises is a cheer and a laugh and a relief. Someone hands me a mic.
Reporters push. “Miss Conte, what would you name the flavor of victory?” one asks, leaning in with a hopeful face.
“Home,” I say without hesitation. “It tastes like home.”
Cameras flash.
People clap.
The twins blink and then giggle like they planned the whole thing.
Cara wipes a bit of glaze from Gabe’s chin that appeared by magic.
Isla holds the ribbon with me like a co-winner.
The men stand back enough to keep me centered and close enough that I can feel them at my shoulders.
Roman’s mouth softens and a muscle jumps in his cheek like something finally let go.
I should be floating.
I am, a little.
But the corners of the day keep trying to curl.
The misprinted placard.
The certificate “corruption.”
The outlet.
A man with a too-nice jacket walked by twice and never looked at the food.
He looked at me.
He smiled like a man who thinks he built the road you are walking on and can dig a hole in it whenever he wants.
