Ryder Cook Mom Mga Nobela at Kwento

Mom walked in, glancing around. “Hey sweetheart, have you seen Ryder? His father wants to talk to him?” “Ryder?” I repeated and licked my lips, tasting Ryder on them, like pine and honey. Weird. “No, I haven’t seen him.” Mom looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “Brook, are you alright? You’re flushed? Did you cry?” “No I’m fine.”

Now there are over thirty different fruit and veggies with a few trees bearing fruit as well. I take my shoes off and lay my purse on the couch. I can smell some type of stew simmering on the stove. Mom has always loved to cook. When I was little she worked at a Roxy's café. It was her dream to own her own diner, so when Miss Hattie, the owner died, it was a shock to us all that she left mom the café. Mom's dream was able to come true without putting down a down payment. Instead, she used the money she had been saving up, and put me through medical school. I was so grateful to her, and after the fire last year, I knew I had to help her out. After all, it was my fault she wasn't ever able to

she said in her babyish voice. “I missed you too, my love.” I hugged her tightly. But I had no time to waste. I had to get moving immediately. So I hurriedly did our morning routine, and we went downstairs. Nothing prepared me for the sight I saw in the kitchen. Ryder was in an apron, cooking. “What are you doing?” I asked, eyes widened in surprise. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever see something like this.

I called after her, but she was already gone. Duke settled onto the couch next to me, stretching his long legs out. “So. Maren Cole. Back in Ridgeway Oaks. Never thought I’d see the day.” “It’s temporary. I’m just here to fix up my mom’s house.” “That’s cool of you. How is your mom, by the way? She still making those insane lemon bars?” “She is, actually. And she passed the recipe down—I could make some for you.” He looked gorgeous. Since I didn’t want to be fawning over Calder, Duke seemed like a perfect distraction.

Ava said. Helena, Jayden and Lavender looked at Ryder in shock. "You don't have to look so shocked, I know my way around the kitchen." Ryder told them. "We are quite aware of that. But you don't like cooking." Helena said. "Ava said she was hungry and I decided to cook for her, there is no big deal." Ryder said as he stirred the sauce. "I can't wait to eat, your cooking always tastes so good." Jayden said hopefully. Ryder gave him an unimpressed look, "in your dreams." he replied.

My momma says with a chuckle as dad looks at her. “No, we missed out on Rebel. We are not missing out on this one. So you better be at her beck and call Ryder, or you will have me to answer to. I don’t want her standing for too long. She needs to eat little and often and nothing is too much trouble. If she is craving fast food at three in the morning, you get your ass up and out that door to make sure she has what she wants. Or you will answer to me. My Principessa deserves the best.” He says, pointing a finger at Ryder. I fight the chuckle that is building up my throat.

"Stick a fork in me, I'm done." Ryker chuckled under his breath as he flexed his fingers on my thigh. "I love you. I love your cooking. Tomorrow we eat salads and meat. No carbs." Momma snorted. "Protein is for pansies." Ryker didn't rise to the bait. He was probably fighting off his own carb coma. Other than the quick ham sandwich we'd had for lunch, we'd really only had carbs today. I was feeling it, that was the freaking truth.

"My mom cooked every meal we ate. She could make some elaborate shit with virtually nothing. If she got a chicken, there wasn't a single part of it that went to waste. She had to get creative, but she has a knack for it." I just couldn't picture a young Ryker sitting around his parents' kitchen table eating homemade meals. In my mind, he'd come out of a test tube-there was no way he'd incubated in a womb-pierced and covered in tattoos. I couldn't picture him as a little boy, either. Somehow, he'd entered the world as a grown man with mountains of attitude and a pissy disposition.

"I've been thinking about finances lately. About who in this household has access to money." My stomach dropped. "You've managed the household accounts since you married my son." Eleanor's eyes never left my face. "Twenty years of controlling every coin that passes through this packhouse." "I managed the accounts responsibly—" "Did you?" She tilted her head. "Because I find it hard to believe that in twenty years, you never skimmed a little off the top. Never set aside a private fund for yourself. Never prepared for a rainy day." I couldn't breathe. "Mother," my husband said slowly, understanding dawning on his face. "You're right. Cordelia has been managing the money for two decades. She mu