Page 105 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
He throws his hands up in mock offense, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that says he’s been caught.
“Guilty as charged. But you know I’ve got a knack for fixing things.” He glances around the room and then at Claire, sizing her up with an exaggerated, theatrical expression. “And I’m curious to see how you plan to do this. I mean, this is a Christmas catastrophe we’re talking about here.”
Claire arches an eyebrow, unbothered by his teasing. “You just wait and see. If anyone can do it, it’s me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Ryder
December 21st
My apartment is too quiet.
It’s one of those silences that presses against you, the kind that suffocates you if you’re not careful. I’m sitting at the dining table, papers scattered everywhere.
My brain’s fried, eyes burning from staring at this mess for hours.
The meeting with Marco races through my mindagain. We have a lot, but we need to figure out how to present it all to the cops to ensure a conviction.
I’m looking through the evidence again, trying to piece it all together in a way that makes sense, which isn’t easy.
It also isn’t easy keeping this from Sunny, but I want to get it all in order first. I don’t want to pile any more pressure on her this close to Christmas.
That’s when I hear the knock. At first, I don’t even register it. It’s faint, part of the silence in the house. But then it comes again, louder this time.
Knocking.
I curse under my breath, running a hand through my hair.
Whoever it is, they’re persistent. And I’m not in the mood for visitors, not with everything that’s hanging over me. But the knocking doesn’t stop.
I push back from the table, frustrated, already regretting getting up.
I open the door without thinking, ready to give whoever it is a piece of my mind.
And then I freeze.
Standing in front of me, as if she’s just strolled out of a magazine cover shoot, is my mother.
She’s standing there with that damned smile plastered on her face.
“Ryder,” she says in that sing-song voice that always makes my blood boil. “I thought I’d stop by and see how my son is doing. Busy, I’m sure.”
I stare at her for a beat, stunned, before shaking my head. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes scan the apartment, her smile not faltering. “Just wanted to check in. I haven’t seen you since we were filming the pilot.”
I roll my eyes. “There is no pilot, Mom. No show. And I don’t need a check-in. I saw you two days ago, and trust me, not much has changed.”
She brushes past me without waiting for an invitation, slipping into the apartment. She doesn’t even seem to notice the clutter of papers scattered around my dining table, or the fact that I’m barely holding it together now.
It’s probably for the best.
“I see you’ve been busy,” she says, eyeing the papers with concealed interest. “But you know, you can’t work all the time. You need to get out more, Ryder. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
I close the door behind her, my patience already wearing thin. “I’m fine, Mom. Seriously. You can leave.”
She turns to face me, raising an eyebrow as if my tone amuses her. “Is that how you greet your mother? Come on, darling, I’m just here to offer a little help.”
