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The smell of books hits me immediately when I step inside, and it brings a smile to my face. There’s no better smell than thecrisp pages of a book. Two walls are filled from the high ceiling all the way to the floor with hardback volumes and paperbacks. I walk over to a section and run my fingers over the spine of an original Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice. Beside it isJane Eyreby Charlotte Brontë.
I walk down the line of books, a little thrill going through me at all of the original works. Most of these volumes are old, but they’ve been well taken care of. Not a speck of dust is on the shelves or the books.
Behind me is a blue velvet chaise lounge, and I can just imagine lying there curled up in front of a roaring fire with one of my books in my hands. Maybe a mug of coffee on the small table beside it, and a plate of macarons sitting on my lap.
Something catches my eye over my shoulder, and I whip around, expecting to see Ryker striding into the room. But it’s not him. It’s a woman sitting in front of a small round table facing the window.
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone was in here.”
I expect the woman to turn and acknowledge me. To move in some fashion. To speak. But she does none of those things. Not a sound or a twitch. It’s like she didn’t hear me. Maybe she’s deaf and hasn’t noticed me yet.
I approach her slowly, and that’s when I realize the type of chair she’s sitting in. It’s a wheelchair.
My brows knit.
She doesn’t move a muscle as I come up to her. She’s turned away from me, so I haven’t seen her face properly. Her hair is as black as midnight, and it hangs in soft curly waves down her back. There are streaks of gray throughout, giving away her age. I can’t see her bottom half because her chair is pushed up to the table, but the top she’s wearing is a peach-colored collared shirt.
I step up to one side of the table and say softly, “Hello.”
Still no response. Her stare is empty, emotionless as she looks out the window in front of her. Her face is slender with a few wrinkles here and there, but her complexion is flawless, not a blemish in sight.
“She’s catatonic. You could put a loaded gun to her forehead and she wouldn’t so much as twitch a muscle.”
I spin around, a surprised squeak leaving my mouth before I can stop it. Ryker stands just inside the doorway, his hands shoved into the pockets of a pair of black jeans. The shirt he’s wearing is a hunter-green V-neck and shows off the thick cords of his tanned throat. His hair looks disheveled, like he’s recently run his fingers through it. My heart thumps heavily in my chest because my first initial thought is he looks damn hot.
It’s simply not right, and the universe obviously has beef against me. Why does my tormentor have to look so appealing?
“What?” I ask, forgetting what he said.
“My mother,” he answers, pulling his hands from his pockets and striding into the room. He stops when he’s on the opposite side of the table from me. “She’s catatonic. Has been for years.”
He grabs the back of the chair and pulls it out, taking a seat. My eyes flicker to his hands. The knuckles of one have a few scrapes, like he got into a fistfight. They weren’t like that yesterday. I ignore that for now and focus back on his face.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” I ask as the puzzle pieces start to fall into place.
“Sit,” he orders, ignoring my question. “Susie will be here momentarily with breakfast.”
I want answers, and the fastest way to get them is to acquiesce, so I pull out my own chair and sit down. I set my hands on top of the table, laying one over the other. My gaze flickers to Ryker’s mother for a brief moment before bringing it back to him.
“Your mother, what’s her name?”
“Vivian.”
“Beautiful and regal,” I remark.
Ryker picks up one of his mother’s hands and starts gently massaging her palms. After several seconds, he takes each finger and works it back and forth, running his fingers up and down the digit.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Her hands get cold. She used to complain about it all the time. I’m warming them.”
“You’re the boy who lived here twenty years ago, aren’t you?” I ask. “And she’s the wife.”
Ryker doesn’t say anything, just sets down his mother’s hand and picks up the other.
“The boy’s name was Matteo Romano, so you’ve obviously changed your name.”
“Yes. I legally changed it when I turned eighteen.”