FIVE
Willow
At sundown on Saturday, the deli was packed with people young and old. There were families with children and babies, grandparents, young professionals as well as college kids and some local street people. Every table and seat was taken and the noise level was high. My father was in his element, hopping from table to table, to see if everyone had enough to eat. Trust me, they did. There was nothing my father loved more than to feed people. And watch them enjoy eating his food. There was a word in Yiddish for my big-hearted father: a mensch.
Dressed comfortably in black leggings, an oversized sweater, and ballet flats, I was helping the staff lug platters of lox and bagels to the hungry patrons. One eye stayed on the front door—anxiously awaiting Ryan. It was going on eight o’clock. Maybe he had changed his mind and wouldn’t show up.
Then, as I lowered a platter onto one of the tables, a warm breath dusted the nape of my neck. I whirled around. My heart did a grand jeté at the sight of the man facing me. Ryan! A Cheshire grin lit up his beautiful face.
“Hi.”
I don’t know how long my mouth stayed open in shock before I said “hi” back. My heart thudded as goosebumps popped along my arms. God, he was gorgeous. He was wearing faded black jeans that molded to his thighs like a second skin and an open charcoal blazer. Beneath his jacket, his chiseled chest peeked out from the V of his pale blue T-shirt. He looked so damn sexy!
“Would you like a bagel and lox?” I asked, not yet having eaten a thing myself.
“Sure.” He grabbed one and bit into it. I watched as he swallowed. He licked a smidgeon of cream cheese off his sensuous lips.
“Wow! This is good.”
“Thanks. Mel’s has the best Nova in the city.”
“Nova?”
“As in Nova Scotia Lox…smoked salmon.” I smiled, charmed by his naiveté.
“Right.” He grinned back with embarrassment.
My eyes stayed on him while he finished the sandwich. His fine upbringing was evident by the way he gracefully held the bagel in his elegant, long-fingered hands and chewed his food quietly.
When he was done, there was still a drop of cream cheese on his upper lip. With my thumb, I wiped it away, relishing the softness of his velvety lips. Hot tingles bombarded me as he shot me a grateful smile. There must have been over one hundred diners in the restaurant, but I only had eyes for one.
“Good to see you here, Mr. Madewell. Have yourself another bagel.”
I spun around. Coming our way was my father with a wide smile broadcast across his face. He, too, was carrying a large tray of bagels and lox.
“Thanks.” Ryan helped himself to another bagel and bit into it.
“How’s my daughter treating you?” asked Pop.
With the chunk of the bagel and lox masticating in his mouth, he couldn’t say a word. Nodding, he gave Pop a thumbs-up.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Just like her mother, may she rest in peace.”
Ryan’s twinkling blue eyes met mine as he swallowed. He nodded again. “Totally.”
I felt my cheeks flush. Did this gorgeous, talented Adonis really think I was beautiful? Or was he just placating my father?
Then suddenly, I felt lightheaded. Everything around me became a messy blur, and the noise around me reduced to a din. Beads of sweat clustered all over my body as all the blood in my head rushed to my feet. It got worse. Like a swarm of bugs, little black dots clouded my vision.
“Pumpkin, what’s wrong?” I heard my alarmed father say, but words stayed trapped in my throat as the black dots multiplied and I grew dizzier.
The noise drowned out as everything turned to darkness. And then my knees buckled. I was going down! Spiraling to the floor like a limp strand of spaghetti. Just before I crashed onto the hard wood, two strong hands caught me. I blinked my eyes open and the next thing I knew I was in Ryan Madewell’s arms, blanketed against his buttery cashmere jacket.
My father brushed a few stray strands of hair off my forehead. “Pumpkin, you just fainted. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I managed, finding my voice. But truthfully, I felt weak and queasy.
Ryan’s eyes stayed fixed on mine. “Sir, I think she should lie down.”
“I need to get back to work and help my father,” I protested, feeling a tad stronger.
My father gazed at me lovingly. “No, Ryan’s right. You need to get some rest.” He looked at Ryan. “Would you mind bringing her up to her room?”
“It would be my pleasure, sir.”
I loved the way he called my father “sir.” It gave the always disheveled deli man dignity. Without making a fuss, I let Ryan carry me up to my room. He knew where the stairs were, having seen me bound up them last week to retrieve his book.
I wrapped my arms around his neck as he effortlessly mounted the flight of stairs to my room. His silky hair brushed against the back of my hand. I stifled the urge to run my fingers through the tousled locks. As I leaned into him, I could feel the hard muscles of his chest against me as well as those of his sculpted biceps. He definitely was in great shape. And I could hear his heart beat. It felt good to be so close to someone’s heart…again.
The stairs led to a small, dimly lit foyer. A portrait of my mother graced the walls, and on the entryway table, there was a large vase of fragrant Asian lilies, my mother’s favorite flowers. Not only did they remind me always of her, but they also deflected the pungent scent of the deli below.
“Which way?” asked Ryan.
“Down the hall to the right.”
“You okay?” he asked as he strode to my bedroom.
“I’m fine.” And I meant it. Being in his arms had restored my strength, but I felt like I was in some kind of dream.
The door to my bedroom was open. Stepping inside, he delivered me to my bed. He set me down gently, propping me against my pillows and covering me with the fuzzy blanket that was folded along the edge. After making me drink some water, he brushed vagrant strands of my unruly hair out of my face. The tenderness of his gesture sent a tingling ray of warmth all the way to my toes.
“Is it okay if I sit down on the bed?”
“Sure,” I said breathlessly. A sudden wave of embarrassment and insecurity washed over me as he lowered himself next to me. Here I was in bed with Ryan Madewell IV, the drop-dead, gorgeous bestselling author of Undying Love. Holy shit!
His eyes swept around the room, taking in every detail.
“Is this where you slept as a child?”
“Yes,” I said diffidently. The room hadn’t been redecorated for years. It still bore my white wrought iron canopy bed and the painted cottage furniture my mom had found at the 26th Street flea market. The pink floral wallpaper matched my bedspread and the curtains that hung on the window. It was so embarrassingly princessy. And next to me on one of my pillows was my favorite stuffed animal—a dilapidated little monkey.
“Who’s that?” asked Ryan upon eyeing it.
“Baboo. I’ve had him since I was a baby.”
Ryan’s gaze stayed on him. “I had one of those. His name was Monk. But my mother threw him out when I was five. I think that was the beginning of all my fuckedupness.”
“I’m sorry,” I said with compassion, remembering what I’d read about his mother in his book. Eleanor Madewell. She was an icy alcoholic with narcissistic tendencies. So unlike my warm, loving mother.
His gaze moved to my nightstand. He studied what was on it.
“Is that your mom?” he asked, pointing his long index finger at a framed photo. It was a portrait of a woman in her early twenties with flaming red hair similar to mine. She held a little curly-haired redheaded girl in her arms. Me.
“Yeah.”
“Your father is right. She was beautiful…like you.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, heating from the compliment.
Before I could say another word, his face brightened. “And you still keep a copy of my book on your nightstand?”
I felt my face flush and smiled shyly. “I like to re-read chapters before I go to sleep.” I paused. “Thanks again for signing it.”
“No, thank you for asking me.” His eyes burnt into mine. I was having a hard time breathing and I didn’t know what to say next. The heavenly scent of his light cologne drifted up my nose, making me feel heady.
His eyes surveyed the rest of the room. I’d read once that writers are observers.
His gaze fixed on the framed photos on my dresser—most of them of me, taken at various stages in my life, in leotards and tutus, some at recitals, others at classes. Then, he shifted his vision to the worn, pink satin pointe shoes that dangled from my headboard. They were my very first pair—I was only ten when I got them.
“Are you a dancer?” he asked.
My muscles tensed. “Yes.” Or should I say was?
“Do you perform?”
I hesitated before responding. “No.”
A half-truth. I hadn’t performed for over six months and I wasn’t sure if I ever would again. I didn’t want to get into details about my recent past. Or think about Gustave …at least right now.
His eyes stayed riveted on the little pink slippers as he gave them a light tap. Tied to the bed by their frayed ribbons, they swung back and forth like a pendulum.
“Do you want me to go downstairs and get you something to eat?”
“Maybe in a little bit.” The truth was I hungered only for him; I didn’t want him to leave me. Not yet. As I soaked in his gorgeous profile, my heart thudded and a buzz of lust flooded my body. I longed to touch him. Run my fingers through his hair. For him to touch me. Trace my lips with his fingers. An awkward stretch of silence followed as he continued to play with my pointe shoes. Then, he turned to face me again, the expression on his face a mixture of hesitance and longing.
“Willow, I want to ask you something.” He paused, holding me in his gaze. “Can I kiss you?”
My lips parted in shock, and my heart practically stopped. “Yes, please,” I murmured. Now! I couldn’t wait a moment more.
On my next rapid heartbeat, he cupped my cheeks in his hands, leaned down, and crushed his soft, warm lips against mine. He nibbled my upper lip, then deepened the kiss, gnawing and sucking. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I’d never been kissed like this before. A heat wave spread through my body, setting every cell on fire. As a moan escaped my throat, his tongue parted my lips and found mine. They danced together, swirling and twirling, two strangers in the night discovering each other. The salty taste of the salmon lingered in his mouth and mixed with his sweet saliva, making him even more delicious. My fingers gripped his hair as our lips, tongues, and moans mingled. I had read about his kisses, but nothing had prepared me for the sensation of one. I thought I was leaving this planet.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps thudded in the near distance. For sure my father. Reality hit us fast and hard. I hastily pulled away from Ryan and caught my breath. While I tidied my mane of hair, he, in turn, jumped to his feet. Before standing up, he cursed under his breath and wiped my wet lips with the back of his hand. I could still taste him. Oh God, how I wanted more of him. To make matters worse, there was a sizable bulge between his thighs.
Pop lumbered into my room. I held my breath, wondering if my father would suspect what had just gone down between Ryan and me. I hoped his eyes wouldn’t travel down my companion’s torso. Oh shit! Then, on my next heartbeat, I was saved.
Huffing, Pop wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Sheesh! Going up a flight of stairs undid him. He so needed to lose weight and get into shape.
“They ate me out of house and home,” he panted, undoing his long, soiled apron.
I digested his words. That meant the grand break-fast was over, and my father had closed up. I glanced at my alarm clock—nine o’clock. Usually, he stayed open till midnight, but Yom Kippur was one of the few exceptions.
“How’s she doing, Ryan?” he asked.
I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He obviously had no clue about what had transpired because my father, like my mother, was brutally honest, not one to hold back.
“Um, uh, I’d say she’s completely recovered.” Ryan stuttered, my father unconvinced.
“She looks flushed. Pumpkin, let me check your temperature.”
“Really, Pop, I’m perfectly fine.” I leaped out of bed and hugged him. My overprotective father.
“Did you at least eat something?” There was genuine concern in his voice as he shot Ryan a troubled look. “Sometimes my little girl doesn’t eat enough.”
“Don’t worry. I did,” I countered, realizing I had broken this year’s fast with a delicious taste of Ryan Madewell. I turned my head to face him.
With suddenness, all of Ryan’s color drained from his face. He fidgeted with the gold band around his ring finger and then bolted out of my room without saying goodnight.