The cookie is crispy and chewy at the same time. The chocolate melts on my tongue, and a hint of sea salt makes the sweetness pop. It’s transcendent. It’s life-changing. It’s better than an orgasm.
I make a conscious effort not to moan.
“These are incredible,” Bettany says, and for once, I agree with her. “Did you bake them yourself? I’ll need the recipe.”
Ryder scratches the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. “I stole them from my mom’s kitchen. But I will pass on that they were appreciated and make sure she sends you the recipe, Betty.”
“Aww, thank you. Give Mae our compliments,” Bettany coos. “And tell her hello from us.”
“Will do.” Ryder nods as the other moms chorus their own hellos to pass along while I grind my teeth.
Somehow, the admission that he stole the cookies from his mother makes everything worse. If he’d baked them, it would’ve been too perfect. But picturing Ryder Evans swinging by his mother’s house and raiding her cookie jar is too much. It’s too sweet; it’s a mental image that has my silly heart squeezing.
When everyone is done eating, I clear my throat, determined to herd the meeting back on track and my pulse under control. “Should we get back to the agenda?”
“Of course.” Bettany brushes crumbs from her fingers. “As room parent”—shot number two—“I’ve been asked to gather input about a controversial topic.”
She sounds like we’re about to discuss ritual sacrifices or tax fraud, not deal with an elementary school event.
“Apparently,” she continues, her tone tart, “a petition has been circulating to cancel Mother’s Day.”
The room goes quiet.
“Some people”—she glances at me—“believe that celebrating mothers has become offensive. That we need to be more inclusive.” She wrinkles her nose as if the concept stinks. “As room parent, I’ll be giving my recommendation to the school board on behalf of the class, and I think my position on this is obvious.”
That makes it three shots, and I’m going to need all three. The other moms shift in their seats, some nodding, others looking uncomfortable, while I see my proposal, the one I spent hours researching and writing to make school events more inclusive for kids like Rhys, getting dismissed because Bettany Harlow has decided it’s an affront to motherhood.
I open my mouth to defend the proposition, to explain the reasoning, to?—
“Thank you, Betty,” Ryder says.
His voice cuts through the tension, calm and measured. All eyes turn to him.
Bettany blinks, clearly thrown. “Oh. You’re… welcome?”
“It matters to me and Rhys that other parents are supporting this change.” He uncrosses his arms, straightening from his lean against the desk. “Not just for us, but for all the kids who might feel left out or singled out by the traditional approach.”
Bettany’s mouth opens, then closes. Her face is shifting through several shades of pink, heading toward red. But she doesn’t dare object.
“I’d hate it for my kid to be made to feel different.” Ryder is looking at me now, his eyes steady and serious as he repeats my words from our first encounter back at me. “For Rhys to sit in class watching other kids make cards for mothers who show up, while he’s reminded of the parent who abandoned him.”
The room is so quiet, I hear my heartbeat. It’s doing something complicated in my chest, a rhythm that has nothing to do with cardiovascular health and everything to do with the vulnerability in Ryder’s voice.
“Having the backing of the room parent”—oh, he’s good, throwing her title back at her—“is what makes this community special: knowing that you’ll recommend to the board that we make these events about all families, not just the traditional ones.” Ryder stares Bettany down.
“Of course,” she manages, her voice strangled. “We support all families. I—I’ll share that thought with the board.”
The other moms nod, murmuring agreement.
Ryder’s gaze finds mine across the circle.
And he winks.
I feel that wink everywhere. In my scalp. In my toes. On the overheated skin of my chest. Between my legs.
A wink shouldn’t have this much power.
But when it comes from Ryder Evans, it’s a promise and a tease and an acknowledgment all wrapped up in one tiny movement.
