Page 3 of Endless Love

“What kind of bread?”

“Rye, please.”

Rye bread for Ry-man. I wondered what it would feel like to be sandwiched between him and a mattress. Oh God. This guy was making my mind travel to places it hadn’t been for a long time.

I prepared the sandwich for him. I was good at this, having made deli sandwiches ever since I could remember. Putting the slab of pastrami onto the meat slicer, I held out my plastic-gloved hand as one lean piece of meat after another fell onto my palm. After heating it, I set the three-inch high pile on the counter.

“Would you like mustard?”

“Just mayo, please.”

Without overthinking it, I squeezed some mayonnaise from a nearby plastic bottle onto the two slices of bread. Something about the way the creamy white condiment squirted out from the pointed cap sent a rush of tingles to my core. It was totally erotic. Jesus! What was I thinking?

I felt his eyes on me as I spread the mayo with a knife and then transferred the pastrami onto one of the slices of bread.

“That looks delicious,” he said as I completed the mouthwatering sandwich.

So do you.

I wrapped up the sandwich and threw it with the pre-packed slaw into a paper bag.

“Would you like anything else?” I managed.

“A cream soda would be great. In fact, I’ll have that now.”

Retrieving a bottle from the cooler, I handed him the soda, my fingers brushing against his. They were long, strong, and purposeful. The fingers of a writer.

He held the bottle in his right hand, and for the first time, I noticed the gold band around his ring finger as he popped off the cap with his other hand. His wedding band. I was surprised he still wore it. Obviously, he was still clinging to Allee. Maybe he wasn’t ready to let go. My stomach tightened. I tried not to linger on it or on what it symbolized and instead focused on his lush lips as they wrapped around the bottle. Tilting his head back, his eyes closed as he savored the cold, carbonated beverage, and as he swallowed, a satisfied moan escaped his throat. A pulse beat between my legs, and I wondered if this is what he looked like after having an orgasm. In my head, I began to undress him, imagining how beautiful he must look in the raw. Then, I remembered his beloved late wife’s last words to him—telling him how beautiful he was. Indeed, he was.

“How much do I owe?” he asked, bringing me out of my reverie.

“It’s on the house if you sign my book.”

His beautiful squiggle of a brow arched before he quirked a wry smile, made sexy by the way the left corner curled upward. “So, you know who I am?”

I quirked a shy smile. “Yeah. I loved your book. Will you sign it?”

“Sure.”

I was taken aback. I suddenly realized that the book was upstairs in our apartment above the deli. “I have to get it. Would you mind watching the store for just a few minutes?”

“Not a problem.”

I hurried to the back of the restaurant and raced up the flight of stairs to the apartment my dad and I shared. The book was on a nightstand in my bedroom. I reread passages of the book every night before I went to sleep. I think it helped me from having the nightmares that haunted me.

When I jogged downstairs, book in hand, Ryan was behind the counter, attempting to cater to a twitchy elderly man. I had to bite down on my bottom lip to stifle my laughter. The customer, one of our pickiest, was asking for an extra lean roast beef sandwich, ketchup on the side, and French fries well done. Poor Ryan. No matter how many pieces of meat he sliced, it was never lean enough for Mr. Picky Wicky.

Scurrying behind the counter, I said, “I’ll handle this while you sign my book.” He let out a loud sigh of relief.

“What’s your name?” he asked, taking my book from me.

“Willow. Willow Rosenthal.”

“Willow.” My skin prickled as he repeated my name. He made it sound like pure poetry.

“That’s a beautiful name.” He smiled a dimpled smile that rendered me breathless. It stretched across his magnificent face as he pulled out a pen from his back pocket. Being a writer, I guess he always carried one with him. You could never tell when or where inspiration would hit.

I took care of the curmudgeon while watching Ryan sign my book from the corner of my eye. I had mechanically signed dozens of ballet programs for fervent fans, but I hadn’t been on the other side of the table for a long time. It was simultaneously nerve wracking and exhilarating. After I got rid of Mr. Picky, I handed Ryan the bag with his sandwich. He, in turn, handed me back the book.

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