We Want Mommy Not You Daddy (Cedar) novel Chapter 167

Chapter 167

Ridley’s POV

I watched the confusion spread across Cedar’s face, her brow

furrowing slightly. How could she be so oblivious about her own

body?

“You can’t possibly be unaware of the scars covering your back,” I

said, my voice measured but firm.

Last night while helping her bathe–a memory that still lingered

uncomfortably in my mind–I’d seen them clearly: pale, crisscrossed

marks marring her otherwise flawless skin. They weren’t recent

injuries, but old wounds that had healed poorly, the kind that

standard treatments couldn’t erase.

This morning, I’d made a detour to Northwestern Memorial, calling in

a favor from a specialist who formulated this custom scar reduction

treatment. The blend of advanced peptides and traditional botanicals

could diminish even decades–old scarring within weeks.

Cedar’s eyes widened at my words, her lips parting slightly in

surprise.

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“Mr. Sterling… thank you,” she whispered, her voice catching. She

reached for the jar I held, her fingers trembling slightly. “I can apply

it myself.”

“The scars are entirely on your back,” I pointed out logically. “You

can’t possibly reach them all effectively.”

Without waiting for her response, I guided her toward the edge of the

bed. The room suddenly felt too intimate, the evening light from the

floor–to–ceiling windows casting everything in soft amber.

“Would you prefer to unbutton your blouse yourself, or shall I assist?”

I asked directly.

Cedar’s cheeks flushed deep pink. She settled on the bed without

further protest, slowly unfastening her blouse and letting it fall open

at the back, revealing her pale skin mapped with the evidence of old

cruelty.

My jaw tightened as I examined the marks more closely. “Who did this

to you?‘

She pressed her face into the duvet, her voice muffled. “The Wright

family housekeeper.”

A cold smile crossed my lips, though she couldn’t see it. Perhaps I’d

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been too lenient with Selena. And Jonathan and Elara… they wouldn’t

escape consequences either.

I focused on the task at hand, unscrewing the jar and scooping a

small amount of the white cream onto my fingers. With methodical

precision, I began applying it to each scar, my fingertips working the

treatment into her skin with gentle pressure. The contrast between

the clinical nature of what I was doing and the intimacy of the act

wasn’t lost on me.

“Mr. Sterling,” Cedar whispered, her voice strained, “could you

possibly… hurry?”

I noted the flush spreading from her cheeks down her neck,

understanding her discomfort. Yet something compelled me to tease

her.

“Asking a woman to make a man ‘hurry‘ while she’s lying on a bed has

certain… implications, Ms. Wright,” I remarked, my voice carrying a

hint of dark amusement.

Her entire body tensed, and she buried her face deeper into the duvet,

refusing to respond.

I continued my work with careful attention, ensuring the cream was

thoroughly absorbed into each mark before moving to the next. When

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I finished, I capped the jar and placed it on the nightstand.

“Done. You can dress now,” I said, my voice returning to its usual

detached tone. “The treatment requires daily application for a month

to be effective. I’ll assist you again tomorrow.”

Without waiting for her response, I left the room, closing the door

quietly behind me.

Cedar’s POV

The moment the door closed, I collapsed face–first into the pillow,

mortified.

Never in my life did I imagine a man–much less someone like Ridley

-would appear with a special cream formulated just to heal my scars.

Scars I’d carried since I was twelve. Scars I’d learned to hide and

forget.

I could still feel the ghost of his touch–those warm hands moving

across my back with surprising gentleness. Each time his fingertips

had pressed into my skin, working the cream into the old wounds, my

heart had stuttered in my chest.

And then that comment about “hurrying.” God. I wanted to disappear

through the floor.

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A month of this? Daily applications? I might not survive the

embarrassment. The scars weren’t even visible when I was dressed-

I’d lived with them for years. Maybe I could just… decline his help?

But the thought of rejecting his unexpected kindness felt wrong too.

I rolled onto my side, careful not to get any residual cream on the

quilt. What was happening to me? One minute I was just Cedar

Wright, a struggling designer trying to make it in Chicago’s

competitive design world, and the next I was in Ridley Sterling’s

house, being cared for in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

Sleep came fitfully, and when it did, my dreams betrayed me completely. Ridley’s hands weren’t just on my back anymore but exploring everywhere with purpose and desire. His usually stern expression softened as he whispered things against my skin. In the dream, his lips traced the path his fingers had taken, moving from scar to scar as if trying to erase them with kisses instead of medicine.

“No!” I gasped, jerking awake,

The pre–dawn light filtered through the floor–to–ceiling windows, casting the Gold Coast skyline in a soft gray haze. I’d spent the entire

night dreaming about Ridley. Inappropriately. Intensely.

This was dangerous territory. I couldn’t afford to develop feelings for him–he was my employer, a design world titan, a man from a different universe than mine. Plus, there was something about him

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that suggested heartbreak waiting to happen.

I had to maintain distance. Professional boundaries. That was the

only safe path forward.

I slipped from the bed and quickly showered, careful around my back

where the treatment had been applied. By six–thirty, I was dressed

and ready to make my escape before the kids woke up. The house was

silent as I crept down the stairs.

Just a quick, clean exit. I needed space to clear my head before I saw

again. Before those hands returned to my skin and made rational

thought impossible.

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