Page 21 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
I nod. “You know who my dad is?”
His fingers surround my wrist, so big comparatively. “I do.”
“It was his mission to show me off when he figured it out. His not-so-secret weapon, although to be fair, he was already so well-known by then. He’d already earned a Michelin star for the restaurant where he still works.” I shrug. “To his utter and absolute disappointment, I cannot bake, though. Not anywhere near close to the way he can. I don’t have that kind of precision.”
“But you can cook.”
Warmth builds inside my chest. “Yes. It’s easier to adjust as I go, to taste my mistakes before they’re already baked in.”
He strokes my wrist with this thumb. “Most of us can only swing one or the other, you know.”
“I do.” I sigh. “I don’t actually enjoy cooking, though. Eating, however…”
Slowly, Ryder releases his grip on me and grabs another glass container from his box, opening it to the scents of meat and sauce. He spoons two meatballs on my plate and three onto his own. My mouth floods with saliva. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had a good homemade meatball.
Since my Nonna passed a few years ago.
I breathe in the scent of home and a life I miss terribly and blink back tears.
Ryder catches the one tear that slips through, cupping my face and frowning. I cover his hand with my own and turn to kiss his palm, a small show of affection I don’t usually dole out.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just remembering my Nonna.”
He nods, knowing and understanding without any explanation. Ryder keeps his grip on my hand, kissing my knuckles. Without the big show of it, the gesture sweetens and digs into my heart. The way he doesn’t want to relinquish my hand is also surprising. He’s not great at eating with his left hand, and it sends me into giggles.
The smile he gives me is so full of happiness that all of the others he’s given me seem calculated by comparison.
“Are you full Italian?” I ask. “You cook like one.”
He huffs a laugh. “No. My mom is full Italian. First generation Italian-American. But my dad is English—Nigel Ashcroft.”
I sputter, trying to keep my own laughter inside. “That’s very,veryEnglish.”
His joy at making me laugh is obvious, glowing in those bronze eyes. “He is incredibly English. You should see them trying to communicate. Him reserved and level, and her fiery and keen on throwing things.”
“Oh, that sounds like me. I can’t control my limbs or the level of my voice when I’m mad. When my dad and I used to fight, the neighbors would call the police. And I’d yell at them, too.” I roll my eyes at myself. I did have a big, big mouth. And far too much confidence that I was always right.
Some of that has curbed since.
“Are you full Italian? I know your father is, right? He emigrated from Italy when he was a teen…”
“He did. Moved with my Nonna and Nonno from Bologna. Mom came from Sicily as a babe. She went back, though.” I stabthe last chunk of meatball and take my time chewing through it. “Mom left Dad and me when I was small. Five, maybe earlier. My Aunt Sylvia and Cousin Sophia came to live with us for a while. You met her in Cancún.”
“The wild one,” he confirms.
“Yes. Would you believe she’s married with four kids now? A preschool teacher.”
His laughter booms in my office, so much like my dad’s when he’s full of joy. Happiness that simply cannot be contained. I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.
“Crazy how much ten years can change,” I say sadly. My last ten years had so much joy in them because of my son and my father, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t missing something important during that time.
“Not the important things.”
I shrug. It’s hard to parse out what those things are.
“You have a son, too, yes?” Ryder relinquishes my hand and pulls out a final container. The perfect end to an Italian meal—Caprese salad.
