Oscar nodded, then fixed me with a stare so intense it might have punctured armor. “I shall inform you if anything strange is detected, sir. Until then, please enjoy your…logistics.” He said the word like it was a rare delicacy.
I shook my head and got back to work, but it was impossible to focus now. My mind kept wandering to the bedroom, to the way Aspen had trembled under me, the way she’d clawed my back and screamed my name like it was the only word in the world. I felt myself start to harden, just thinking about it.
I shifted in my seat, tried to distract myself with an email, but the bond lit up again—this time with a sharp jolt of amusement. Aspen must have felt it, because a second later she called out from the kitchen.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, voice sing-song. “You’re making me wet in here, and I have to wear these panties all day.”
I about died. Oscar made a strangled, scandalized sound, then covered his face with both paws.
I could hear her giggling, muffled by the swinging kitchen door. “You’re not even in the room and you’re already getting me in trouble,” she said, still laughing. “I have a new rule. No making me horny when there’s raw dough around.”
“I’ll try,” I said, but didn’t mean it. The warmth in my chest grew to a slow, steady burn. I’d spent years believing I was broken, unlikely to find this kind of happiness. Now it felt like the universe was making up for lost time.
Oscar composed himself, then pointedly straightened his cravat. “I shall be monitoring the yeast, Miss, should you require my assistance.”
“Thank you, Oscar,” she replied. “You’re a true professional.”
He puffed up, pleased.
The morning rolled on. I finished my work, double-checked the comms, then leaned back and just watched the bakery come to life. Aspen was in her element, humming along to an old Fleetwood Mac song, hands dusted with flour, hair coming loose from her bun a bit. Oscar busied himself with inventory, reading off ingredient lists in his perfect British diction.
I got up, stretched, and wandered to the front counter. I poured another mug of coffee, then perched on a stool, watching the street. It was quiet—nothing suspicious, nothing wrong. For the first time since I’d woken up in a hospital bed almost ten years ago, I felt completely, irrevocably right.
My phone buzzed. Maddie.
Hey, stud. Pearl’s kitchen is doing lunch drop-off today. Me and maybe Parker will bring the goods. Is 11:30 cool?
I typed back:Perfect. Aspen will want potato salad.
Maddie’s reply came instantly:Your girl has excellent taste. See you soon, Big Papa.
I smiled, pocketed the phone, and listened to the hum of the bakery. I could have stood there all day, just breathing in the scent of fresh bread and sugar, listening to Aspen and Oscar bicker about the proper pronunciation of “croissant.”
At 6:00, we unlocked the front door. The first customer was a rancher in a battered Carhartt, who left with two dozen kolaches and a smile. By 7:00, the place was half full. Oscar stayed hidden in the back as Aspen worked the counter and the oven, and I played bouncer—discreet, but ready.
A woman in a gray jacket lingered outside for a minute, but she moved on, and nothing felt off. I let myself relax.
The moment I stepped inside the clubhouse, I was slammed by the familiar mix of coffee, leather, and motor oil. It was the smell of my second home.
Gunner and Arsenal were in the kitchen, arguing over whether brisket or ribs should be on the menu for Saturday’s ceremony. Gunner had a heavy mug of black coffee in his grip and wore his cut over a plaid shirt that matched his boots, while Arsenal, true to form, dressed like he’d just stepped out of an urban sniper’s fantasy. He saw me, narrowed his eyes, and nodded. That was about as much affection as Arsenal ever gave anyone.
“Hey, lover boy,” Gunner called. “Heard you finally bit the bullet.”
“Bullet’s not the only thing I bit,” I shot back, dropping my bag on the nearest chair. “And if you keep running your mouth, I’ll let my mate put a spell on your pecker.”
Gunner laughed, shaking his head. “I’m immune. My balls are sanctified by barbecue and bourbon.”
Arsenal snorted. “I’m just waiting for the day one of you falls for a real monster. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”
“One of these days you’re gonna fall in love with the exact wrong person,” I told him, grinning. “Karma’s a bitch, buddy.”
He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said he’d taken the hit.
Church started right on time, as it always did. Bronc presided from the head of the battered oak table, flipping through a dog-eared binder of schedules and supply lists.Maddie was there too, hunched over her laptop, eyes darting between her screen and the room like a bird of prey.
Bronc cleared his throat. “Let’s get moving. First up: Saturday’s ceremony. Papa, you got the site locked down?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Oscar’s helping Aspen with the protection wards, and I’ll have extra bodies running perimeter checks. All the food’s covered, Gunner’s got the meat, and the cake’s on Aspen.”
