Page 56 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
I failed.
She’s standing in the lobby, a few paces behind Elaine, her hand resting on the counter as she looks between the two of us. I can see the concern in her eyes, her posture tense as if she’s sensing the storm brewing in the air.
She must have overheard Elaine’s arrival and our conversation.
I feel a wave of guilt wash over me. I never wanted her to see this side of my life. The side that’s broken, messy, and filled with too many ghosts.
And now… now, she’s caught in it.
I quickly glance back at Elaine, but her gaze is already flicking over to Sunny. It’s a look of pure judgment, the kind that says she’s assessing Sunny, dissecting her in the way only a stage mom could.
Elaine takes in Sunny’s casual, laid-back appearance, the sweater, the messy hair, the lack of any real effort, and I can feel the disapproval radiating from her.
She straightens up, adjusts her coat, reining in her irritation, and then, as if performing for an invisible audience, she turns to me. Her smile, still sugary, doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Ryder, darling,” she says, tainted with condescension. “Why don’t we go have lunch? We can talk more about your future, and maybe I can help you see the bigger picture here.”
I can see the look on Sunny’s face now. The hurt. The confusion. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she can sense the tension in the air.
And I hate myself for dragging her into this.
I want to stay. I want to explain everything to her, tell her how much I don’t want to be that person anymore. But Elaine’s already pulling me away, her hand on my arm, her grip insistent.
I glance back at Sunny as I let Elaine lead me toward the door, her eyes wide with a mixture of concern and something else I can’t quite read.
I wish I could fix it. Wish I could pull her into this moment and tell her she doesn’t have to worry about her. But I can’t. Not yet.
Not with my mother here.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sunny
December 8th
I’m really startingto regret this whole throw yourself into gala prep thing.
Chef Andre is in his element, and here I am, standing in the kitchen, surrounded by trays of food I can’t even appreciate.
My hands are busy. My brain is not.
My body is running on autopilot while my mind is still stuck somewhere in the cold hallway, watching Ryder walk away with that woman.
Great. Not like I needed that distraction today.
Chef Andre is barking orders as if he’s auditioning for a reality cooking show, but I’m only half-listening. I’m too busy trying not to think about what’s happening outside the kitchen, and more importantly, who it’s happening with.
I grab a fig and goat cheese tartlet, a dish I absolutely love, thinking that food will take my mind off things. I’m practically salivating at the thought of it. Sweet, creamy, and savory all rolled into one beautiful bite.
I chew.
Big mistake.
For a second, everything seems normal.
And then it hits.
My stomach flips like I just went on a roller coaster I didn’t sign up for. The tartlet, usually a gift from the gods, is suddenly a brick sitting in my stomach.
