Page 50 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
“You take your coffee very seriously.”
“The only things I take more seriously are my work, my cars…” He grins at me. “And pancakes and bacon.”
“These pancakes are amazing,” Nate says, around a mouthful of food.
“Nate, don’t talk with your mouth full.”
He rolls his eyes, but chews and swallows. “Where’d you learn to make pancakes like this, Ryder?”
“I taught myself. I eat breakfast for dinner a lot, so I perfected the art of making pancakes a long time ago.”
“You can do that? Just…have breakfast for dinner like…all the time?”
Ryder laughs. “That’s one of the perks of adulthood, kiddo.”
I see Nate’s wheels turning, and narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t get any ideas, bud. We won’t be having pancakes and waffles for dinner every night.”
“Darn. You’re always crushing my dreams, Mom.”
“That’s me—Evil Mom, the Destroyer of Dreams,” I say, deadpan.
“Yup. Just like when I had the idea to crumble up my cupcake in my ice cream and you said no.”
Ryder turns, an expression of admiration on his face. “DUDE. That’s genius.”
Nate turns to me, triumphant. “See? Ryder thinks it’s a good idea.”
“It was a chocolate cupcake and Superman ice cream.”
Ryder fakes a gag. “You didn’t mention that part—that’d have been nasty.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You’re not supposed to encourage his antics, you know.”
Ryder just grins, turning back to the griddle; he flips the pancakes deftly from the griddle onto a plate, tongs the bacon onto another plate lined with paper towel, and brings both plates to the table. He sits down at the table, with Nate on one side and me on the other. My stomach flips and twists at the intimate moment—the three of us, having breakfast together.
Like a fam—
No.
Nope.
No.
A few good dates and some earth-shattering sex are not grounds to let my heart start tossing that word around. Shut it down, Laurel. One day at a time—take it slow.
Ryder slides three thick, fluffy, perfectly golden brown pancakes on the plate in front of me along with a few pieces of bacon, and then nudges the butter and syrup toward me. I drench my pancakes in butter and syrup and dig in, moaning in delight.
“These really are incredible,” I say.
Ryder grins. “My own special recipe. Mostly oat flour mixed with a little almond flour—none of that bleached bull…um, crap. Good, and good for you.”
I wash down a bite with a mouthful of hot, black coffee and nibble on some bacon.
I could really get used to this.
“Me too,” Nate says.
I blush, realizing I said that out loud.
Ryder just chuckles. “Me three. I’ve been eating alone for a long time, and it’s kinda nice having company.” He stabs a forkful of pancake. “Plus, it’s nice having people appreciate my pancake recipe. I’ve been tweaking it for years.”
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” I mumble.
“But you did,” Ryder says.
“Well, thank you, Ryder. Nate and I are super grateful for bacon and pancakes and amazing coffee.”
Nate makes a face. “I don’t like coffee,” he says. “Mom let me try it one time, and it tasted like poopy dirt mixed with barf.”
Ryder cackles. “You’ve really got a way with words, you know that?”
I roll my eyes. “Not everything has to be potty talk, Nate.”
“You won’t let me swear, so how else am I supposed to express myself?” he argues. “You’re always telling me to be myself, and maybe that’s just how I express myself.”
“You can’t find a way to express yourself that isn’t nasty?”
“No, probably not. I’m nine—it’s what we do.”
Ryder is desperately trying to suppress laughter, and I point at him with my fork. “You are not helping.”
He blows out a breath, calming himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—he’s just funny.”
Nate grins, and it’s clear he’s over the moon from Ryder’s praise. Now, having eaten all his food, he gets up from the table.
“Hey, now, mister. Clear your plate.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Having a guest over doesn’t change the rules.”
He makes a dramatic show of clearing his place, rinsing the plate and putting it in the dishwasher, along with his fork and cup.
“Good, thank you.” I gesture toward his room with my fork. “Now, brush your teeth and get ready for school, please.”
When Nate is in the bathroom with the water running, I glance at Ryder. “You still want your plan for next week to be a surprise?”
He nods. “I think it’ll make it more fun.”
I shrug. “Like I said last night, I’ll probably have a minor anxiety attack when it comes time to let you actually drive away with him, but I’ll get through it.”
“I don’t want you to have an anxiety attack, Laurel.”
“No way around it. It’s part of being a mom—letting your kid out of your sight at all is grounds for a minor anxiety attack. Letting him leave with someone else—even someone you trust—is the most difficult thing in the world. I sobbed like a baby his first day of school. I still get teary-eyed, honestly, and he’s in third grade.”
