Page 11 of Endless Love

“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.

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