Page 11 of Single Mom’s Secret Diary (The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection)

Avery

W ork is like navigating around landmines. No where I step is safe. I seem to be surrounded at all times by the three men who haunt my afternoons and evenings. My nights and dreams. My mornings. God, they’re with me all the time.

My tightrope keeps getting thinner and thinner, and locking myself up in my office doesn’t work. They all find me there.

Ezra hasn’t kissed me since we both had that slip of judgment. He seems scared to touch me again, and part of me desperately wants to break through his control again. Even if I need the space.

Wyatt’s deigned to touch me a couple of times, staring at my mouth more and more often. Although we’re struggling with the formula for our new dark chocolate, his new ritual to recenter himself seems to be brushing my mouth with his thumb.

It’s a slow glide that makes me want to bite him.

And then, there’s Ryder. His version of intensity is the complete opposite of the other two. He’s an over the top flirt. Naughty comments and innuendos. I can’t tell whether he possesses more control than Wyatt and Ezra or less.

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?”

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, very English.”

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 stab the 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.

“Yes. He’s nine. Full of energy and mischief, but overall, he’s a good kid.” I miss being there when he gets home, but Sophia takes him for the few hours between school and when I get off work. But it’s good for him to be around family.

“What’s his name?” Ryder is playing with my fingers again, tracing the lines of my palm and the blue of my veins across my forearm. I shiver under the electric current of his touch.

“Charlie.”

“You should bring him in for a tour some time.” The sincerity in his bronze eyes sets butterfly wings fluttering in my chest. “I bet he’d love to do some taste testing of his own.”

“He certainly would. That boy is a chocoholic.”

We chew through our tomatoes, mozzarella, and onions in relative silence, but he never stops touching me. It’s becoming intoxicating.

I like this version of Ryder. The one who’s not trying so hard, whose flirting is subdued and genuine, who’s willing to show me the softer pieces of himself. The food alone tells me he wants to take care of someone—me, maybe. If I let him.

He packs up what he’s brought, and I stand to walk him to my door. Even though we’re in the office, I can’t help but feel the need to reciprocate with my own affectionate gesture.

Ryder hugs the box against his side and tucks my hair behind my ear with the other. A soft nudge lifts my chin like he might kiss me, but when he leans in, it lands on my cheek instead.

“You’ll have to let me make you dinner sometime,” he says against my hot skin. “And then, perhaps, breakfast after.”