We Want Mommy Not You Daddy (Cedar) novel Chapter 83

Chapter 83

Cedar’s POV

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. ‘Mrs. Petrovich, it’s not what you think. He’s not-

“Say no more,” she winked, turning to Ridley. “You two look perfect together–like you were made for each other. Those matching good looks must be why your son is such a handsome little boy! Don’t go home tonight, stay here where you belong.”

She shuffled toward the garbage can with her, leaving us in awkward silence.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at Ridley, mortified by Mrs. Petrovich’s assumptions. When I finally gathered the courage to glance his way, I was shocked to

see his usual stern expression had softened into something almost like amusement.

“I take it your son’s father hasn’t visited this place?” he asked, his voice lighter than I’d ever heard it.

“Why would he?” I muttered, fighting the urge to explain that Oliver wasn’t even my biological son.

Strangely, my response seemed to please him. His lips curved into a subtle smile, and his steps became almost buoyant as we continued up the stairs.

I had no idea what to make of his reaction. Why would he be happy about my neighbor’s embarrassing misconception? And why did he seem pleased that

Oliver’s “father” hadn’t been to my apartment?

Tonight was already bizarre enough–finding the CEO of Sterling Design Group standing outside my door was just one more surreal moment in an increasingly complicated relationship.

Finally reaching the door, I fumbled for my keys and unlocked it. The familiar click was always a relief after a long day.

“There we go,” I murmured, flipping on the light switch. My small apartment bloomed into view–modest but cozy, with its blush–colored loveseat, glass coffee table, and wooden dining set creating the humble haven I’d worked hard to make. The balcony was covered with a foam play mat, and building blocks

were scattered across it.

Ridley paused at the threshold, his tall frame filling the doorway as his eyes swept across my space with calculating precision. I could almost feel him cataloging every detail, every evidence of my life beyond work.

‘Where’s your son?” he asked, his deep voice breaking the silence as he stepped inside.

“Home,” I answered automatically, then realized my mistake.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Home? Isn’t this his home?”

I kept my expression neutral. “He’s with his father. Is that a problem?”

Before he could respond, I quickly headed to the kitchenette. “Mr. Sterling, please have a seat. Would you like some water? I’ll grab the project files.”

I slipped into my bedroom, rummaging through my dresser until I found my pepper spray. I tucked it securely into my pocket before returning to the living room with a professional smile and my portfolio.

“Here are the proposals, Mr. Sterling. If you have any work–related questions, I’m all ears.”

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Chapter 83

My stomach chose that exact moment to grow! loudly. I pressed my hand against it, mortified.

Ridley’s gaze dropped to my midsection. You haven’t had dinner.”

“Just been busy,” I tried to laugh it off. “Let’s focus on the project details.”

I’d rather not be interrupted by… bodily sounds. Go eat something first.”

He settled back on my sofa, crossing his legs as if he owned the place. The audacity of this man! It was almost ten o’clock, and here he was, making himself comfortable in my apartment. Was this some kind of power play? Thank goodness for the pepper spray in my pocket.

Fine. I’d play along and see just how far the mighty Ridley would go.

Then please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Sterling. I’ll make myself some noodles.”

In the kitchen, I filled a pot with water and set it to boil, listening to the sound of his footsteps as he moved around my apartment. I could picture bim examining everything, judging my modest living conditions. When I heard him approach the kitchen, I tensed slightly.

“Need any help?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

The offer was so unexpected I nearly dropped my chopsticks. Ridley, CEO of Sterling Design Group, offering to help in my tiny kitchen? Was this, some

alternate universe?

Well, if he was offering… “Since you asked, could you wash those vegetables?”

He hesitated for just a second–enough for me to catch it–before rolling up the sleeves of his custom shirt. The sight was almost comical: this imposing man in his thousand–dollar outfit, standing awkwardly in my cramped kitchen.

Then it happened. Two enormous cockroaches scuttled down the water pipe toward the sink where Ridley was washing vegetables.

The chaos that followed was spectacular.

In one swift motion, he upended the entire colander of vegetables onto the counter, sending several dishes crashing to the floor. The sound of breaking ceramic filled the kitchen.

“What are you doing?!” I shouted, staring at the mess in disbelief.

Ridley pointed stiffly toward the sink, his composure completely shattered. “Cockroaches.”

“So what? Was that worth destroying half my kitchenware?” I couldn’t believe it. This was an old building in Wicker Park–pests were part of the package

deal.

To prove my point, I kicked open the cabinet beneath the sink. Several roaches scattered out, and I stomped them efficiently, one after another.

The look of horror on his face was almost worth the broken dishes.

Ridley’s POV

The narrow apartment complex walkway reeked of stale cooking oil and cheap cleaning products. By the time we reached her unit, I was questioning my decision to follow Cedar Wright to her apartment.

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Chapter 83

Her modest living space revealed more than I’d expected. Signs of a child were everywhere–toys, tiny clothes, building blocks scattered about. The apartment had an undeniable warmth despite obvious budget constraints.

When she mentioned her son was “home with his father, something didn’t sit right, Oliver had just come back too. Was that really just chance? Her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, snapping me back to reality.

After insisting she eat dinner, I found myself offering help in the kitchen–completely out of character for me. In thirty–one years, I had never washed a vegetable. My homes came with staff, my restaurants with chefs.

But I’d spoken, and I wouldn’t back down.

Then I saw them–two massive cockroaches crawling down the pipe toward the sink. Toward my hands.

My reaction was instinctive and catastrophic. Dishes crashed, shattering on impact.

To my absolute horror, Cedar kicked open the cabinet beneath the sink, causing more roaches to scatter. Then she stomped on them one by one with casual efficiency, as if killing cockroaches barefoot was perfectly natural.

I stood frozen, feeling utterly out of place. In my world–Sterling mansion with its pristine surfaces and controlled environments–this would never happen.

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