Page 20 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
The combination of them all has me on edge with the constant sexual tension. It’s mounting and mounting and mounting. I can’t hide from it.
I tuck myself in my office, trying to catch my breath. I’m not sure how much longer this can go on.
The moment I have some semblance of control, there’s a knock at my door.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Come in.”
Speak of the devil, Ryder stands there with a cardboard box in his hands. His smile is softer than usual, but his bronzed eyes are bright and mischievous. I don’t need to wave him in or clear him space. He makes himself at home straight away.
The box settles on the chair opposite of me. He slides my pens and outbox out of the way and settles a plate and cloth-wrapped utensils in front of me. A second set appears, and he pulls a chair around beside me before he sits.
“What are you doing?” I ask from behind my hands. I’m blinking at him like an idiot.
“Feeding you lunch.” Ryder lifts a glass container and opens it, the scents of garlic and eggplant, mushrooms and olive oil wafting out of it. Peppers, onions, and buffalo mozzarella cheese. I spot the Pappardelle pasta, the traditionally wide egg noodle that makes the dish.
And then he hits me in my weak spot.
“I made it myself.” Brows dancing, he smiles at me, and it’s not the intense version I’m used to—it’s softer, sweeter, more dangerous.
“How much of it?” I challenge him.
That smile widens with pride. “All of it. Although I didn’t grow the vegetables, grind the flour, or make the cheese. Everything else was me.”
I laugh wildly, leaning back in my chair as he spoons me a small portion. I have a feeling there’s more to come.
“To what do I owe this honor?” For my family, food is a sign of love. Especially homemade food. It’s the ultimate gift we can give each other.
Closing my eyes, I take in another whiff. It fills me with the feeling of home. A small mouthful eases the tension in my shoulders and back as the flavors hit and meld to perfectly balance with each other on my palate.
A low, pleased note vibrates in the back of my throat, and when I open my eyes, Ryder is beaming at me like I’ve just given him an award.
“Verdict?” His playful glint has me smiling back at him.
“Almost as good as my Nonna’s.”
His bronze hand covers the small triangle of exposed chest. The white of his shirt highlights the healthy tone of his skin even more. “The highest of praises.”
I take another bite and enjoy the effort this meal took to put together right. There’s no way he can know that eggplant is one of my favorites. I put it in every dish I can. It’s meaty and soaks up flavor so well.
Plus, I can eat a pound of it and not worry about my hips gaining inches.
Talk about a win-win.
“So, how did you learn to cook like this?” The food disappears too quickly.
“My mother and Mimi. They were always in the kitchen, and I was always underfoot, being waved out by towels, vowels, and wild hand gestures…”
I can’t hold in my laughter. My memories are filled with the same thing.
He laughs, too. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I do. Only, I was sat at the kitchen table to be seen and not heard. Until they wanted to know what touches I thought they needed to add. Which was a heady experience for a seven-year-old, let me tell you.” As Nonna’s memory faded, she relied on me to remind her of what she couldn’t remember.
Ryder’s hand touched mine, spreading warmth through me. “That’s a lot of power to have in an Italian kitchen.”
My laugh is breathy. “Yeah. It is.”
“Is that when your family discovered what you could do?”
