TWELVE
Ryan
Over the course of the next week, I was needed in more ways than one. Well, maybe I wasn’t exactly needed, but I volunteered my services: to help Willow run her dad’s deli while he was convalescing at the hospital. It was a convenient way to spend time with her, but admittedly not the easiest. Making sandwiches and waiting tables. I sucked at hard labor. Mayflower-descended Madewells weren’t made for it.
But as challenging as it was, it was the most fun I had in ages. And the labor-intensive work was validating, a feeling that had eluded me for way too long. Most of all, I loved being with Willow and her father’s loyal, good-natured employees—the counter guys, waitresses, cooks, cashiers, and hostesses, who all embraced me like a son. I admit I didn’t know a new pickle from an old one, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I was part of a loving family. Like I belonged.
I learned from Willow that there was an art to making a sandwich. And Mel’s offered as many varieties of sandwiches as there were books in the New York Public Library. Okay, not that many but still enough to fill an encyclopedia. And they each had their own unique name, some named after sections of New York like The Soho Double Decker, an oversized sandwich made with alternating layers of pastrami, corn beef, and coleslaw, while others were named after famous New York celebrities, many of whom had dined at Mel’s like former Mayor Bloomberg and the late Pearl Bailey. No surprise that no one from my illustrious family was among them…
…Until one night Willow and I were alone, closing up the restaurant. It was almost midnight.
“How’s your dad doing?” I asked, wrapping a huge roasted turkey in saran wrap. She’d gone to visit him earlier in the day, something she’d done daily since his heart attack.
Covering the tray of slaw, she smiled. “He’s doing great. Complaining about the hospital food. They’re going to release him early next week.”
“Is he going to have to be on bed rest?” What I was really asking: Do you still need me to work here with you?
“Actually, no. He can resume working, but he’s going to have to take it easy. No lifting heavy things…a definite nap during the day…that kind of stuff.” She straightened up the plastic utensils bin. “Most importantly, he’s going to have to watch his diet and do some exercise.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard.”
Willow laughed. “Are you kidding? The doctor said he has to cut out pastrami. That’s like telling a little kid he can’t have candy.”
I laughed too.
“And my father’s idea of exercise is going to the bank, which is around the corner.”
“Maybe I can get him to take up running,” I said, still laughing.
“Fat chance. No pun intended.” She adjusted her long white apron, bringing attention to her nipped waist. “I told him how helpful you’ve been.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“It’s been fun.” That was an understatement; I loved every minute I’d spent with Willow. I hadn’t felt this close to a woman in years. Or so alive.
“My father’s really grateful. He wants me to name a new sandwich after you.”
“Get out.”
“Seriously. Let’s create it now.”
“What should we call it?”
“Duh. The Ryan Madewell.”
“Thanks for leaving out ‘The Fourth’.”
“We can add it if you like.”
“No, please don’t.” I actually hated my pretentious name and the fact that I had to share it with my father and his father before him.
“Let’s start with the bread. Rye, right?”
She knew me well. “Yeah, definitely rye bread.” I watched as she reached for a loaf of freshly baked bread and sliced off two even-sized pieces.
“Watch your fingers,” I urged.
“Don’t worry. The last thing I want is another trip to the hospital.”
I couldn’t agree more, I thought as she set the two slices on the counter.
“Next?”
“Mayo.”
“All right, but don’t go overboard with it.” She handed me the plastic mayo bottle. Holding it, I squeezed a generous amount of mayo on both slices of the bread, my cock flexing as I watched the creamy white condiment pour out.
“Okay, that’s enough,” said Willow, stopping me. A little bit of the mayo dotted the tip of the cap. It reminded me of pre-cum and made my dick grow thicker, especially when Willow wiped it off with her forefinger and sucked it off. Fuck. She was making me horny as sin.
“So, what’s going into this sandwich, Mr. Madewell?”
“Let’s keep it healthy in honor of your father. So he can eat it.”
“No pastrami?”
I shook my head. Nope, no pastrami as much as I loved it too. About a year ago, I’d gone to California to meet with potential movie producers and recalled a delicious sandwich I’d eaten at a chic restaurant. It was filled with hummus, hand carved turkey breast, provolone cheese, avocado, and arugula. I was almost sorry I’d spread the mayo, but I thought it would still work. While I knew the turkey breast and hummus were available, I asked Willow if the kitchen stocked the other ingredients. Happily, I learned it did, but they were used mostly by the short order cook for omelets. While I unwrapped the turkey, Willow went to the kitchen to retrieve the other ingredients. In no time, she returned, her hands full. About to carve the turkey, I helped her set the remaining ingredients on the counter.
Her face was lit up, her expression inquisitive. “Ry-man, what do you have in mind?”
Fuck. I loved when she called me Ry-man. No one had ever called me that before. While it was close to my real name, it was different enough.
I tugged at her fiery red hair, which tonight was fixed in a long, loose braid. “Can you cut the avocado into slices?” I had no clue how to handle the green testicle-shaped fruit. My sister and I grew up with cooks, and with Allee, I ordered in most of the time.
“Of course,” she replied with a sexy smile.
As I sliced thick pieces of the turkey, she cut the avocado. We were side by side. Totally in sync. Was this what sex with her would be like?
My cock twitching, I sneaked a piece of the turkey and then went back to slicing it. In a few minutes, we finished creating our culinary masterpiece.
“Let’s try it,” insisted Willow.
“Okay. You take the first bite.”
I watched as her lips clamped down on the thick sandwich, wondering what they would feel like around my cock. I could feel my cock flex as she swallowed.
“Mmm,” she moaned, the sound of her sensuous hum, turning me on more. “It’s so good.” Is that what she would say about my cock?
“Okay, your turn,” she said, interrupting my dirty thoughts as she fed me the sandwich. I took a big bite. “Fuck, this is amazing. Even better than the one I had in California.”
A big smile lit up Willow’s face. “It’s going to become our new bestseller.”
Alternating bites, we devoured the sandwich. On my last bite, I closed my eyes and wondered: what would it be like to eat her? Savor her sweet pussy? Taste her on my tongue? It took all my willpower not to strip her of all her clothes and haul her onto the counter. I longed to kiss her again, too, but feared I wouldn’t be able to stop there. My conscience told me to take things slowly, but my body didn’t believe a single word. With my cock at full attention, I helped her clean up and then forced myself to go back to my loft. My only compensation—a delicious fantasy to get off on.
By the end of the next day, The Ryan Madewell Special was by far the most popular item on the menu. We couldn’t stop making them.
“Everyone wants a taste of Ryan Madewell,” Willow said flirtatiously as she loaded yet another sandwich onto a plate.
I chuckled. I, on the other hand, wanted a taste of only one woman. The beautiful and beguiling Willow Rosenthal.