Page 58 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
I don’t say anything at first. I just let the silence stretch, giving him the space he needs. He needs to breathe, to settle, and I’m not going to rush him.
But then, when I’m about to say something too heavy, too meaningless, I remember the peppermint cocoa I’ve been too nervous to drink. The one I made for myself this morning, but never actually managed to take a sip from.
I slide the mug across the desk toward him, offering it up because it’s the least I can do. “You want something warm to take the edge off? I’ve got cocoa. It’s probably not great, but… you know. I made it with love.”
Ryder doesn’t look at the mug at first. He stares at the desk, his brow furrowed, his thoughts clearly somewhere else.
But after a beat, he glances down at it and cracks a half-smile, though it’s still strained. It’s just for show.
He picks up the mug, holding it like it’s some fragile thing, and takes a long sip, his eyes closing for a moment as if the warmth is cooling him down. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t completely disappear, but the slight relaxation is there, if only for a second.
“Thanks,” he mutters softly. “I needed that.”
I observe him, the storm still simmering beneath the surface.
After a long moment of silence, he leans back in the chair and, with a heavy sigh, starts talking again, this time more quietly. “She doesn’t know when to stop, Sunny. I don’t even know what to do with her anymore.”
I tilt my head slightly, encouraging him to keep going. I know this is hard for him. The words don’t come easily, and I can see it in his eyes. He’s struggling to let it all out.
“She’s been playing this game for years,” he continues bitterly. “When I was younger, it was about fame. Always about the next big thing, the next project. She didn’t care if I was exhausted or if I hated it. She pushed me until I was nothing but the product she could sell. And now, even after all these years, all she sees isthe brand.Me as some kind of commodity, not as her son.”
I bite my lip, wishing there was something I could say to make this easier for him. I can see the way his jaw tightens, the frustration and pain leaking through even though he’s trying to keep it contained.
I wish I could take the anger from him, but I know I can’t.
“She shows up here like she’s got some right to waltz back into my life just because the hotel is getting attention,” he mutters, running a hand through his already messy hair. “The reunion movie, the comeback she keeps going on about. She wants to sell that story so bad she can’t even see straight. I’m notdoing it, but she won’t accept that. Not when she’s finally getting the spotlight again. I don’t know how to shake her now that the whole world’s watching, Sunny.”
I nod slowly, absorbing his words, letting them sink in. I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t. Instead, I watch him, let him process it out loud. I don’t know if he’s ever been this open with anyone.
And as much as I want to offer him something that will take the edge off, I know it’s not about me fixing it. He’s not asking for solutions. He’s just… talking. And that’s enough.
“I don’t know how to handle this,” he says after a moment. “She’s got this hold on me. It’s like she’s always one step ahead, always manipulating things, even when I think I’ve cut her out of my life.”
I swallow hard. There’s a tightness in my throat that I can’t quite explain, but I understand now. Understand how much this has affected him, how much it still hurts. He’s not just angry. He’s wounded.
I sit there for a moment, taking it all in. The pain, the frustration in his voice, the way his shoulders slump with everything he’s carrying. It’s raw. Real. And it hits me harder than I expect.
I’ve always seen Ryder as this composed, guarded man, but now, sitting across from him, I realize how much of that is a façade. Underneath, there’s someone who’s been broken by the expectations of others, by a mother who sees him as a product, not a person.
And it’s not just anger I feel for him. It’s something more protective.
Without thinking, I push my chair back and move toward him. It’s an instinct. A need to offer comfort, to let him know he’s not alone in this, even if I don’t have all the answers.
He doesn’t need solutions right now. He needs to feel seen. Heard. Less… alone.
I don’t even pause. I reach out and wrap my arms around him.
At first, there’s nothing—a moment of stillness. And then, as if he finally allows himself to feel it, his body softens, and he exhales slowly. He’s been holding his breath for too long.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his arms come around me, hesitantly at first, as if testing the waters. And then he holds me tighter, his grip desperate, like he’s afraid the moment will slip away.
I rest my head against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body seep into mine. The rhythmic sound of his breathing steadies me, and for a moment, this is precisely where I need to be with him.
I feel his chest rise and fall with a shaky breath. And for the first time since I’ve met him, I feel like I’m seeing the real Ryder.
Not the composed, brooding billionaire, but the man who’s been hurting for far too long, trying to handle it all on his own.
And I’m here for him.
