Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Ryan
"Ryan?" Nick tilted his chin up at me on the steps. "Still here?"
"Car's running late." I checked my watch. For some reason, the car Ronan sent for me hadn't shown up.
"I'm heading that way." He said. "Want a ride?"
I hesitated. Honestly, taking Nick's car or the driver's made no difference to me. As long as I got to class on time. But something felt off.
"Thanks, Nick. But I'll wait—"
"Wait any longer, and you'll be late." He tapped the window. "Get in. We can talk on the way."
I looked at my watch again. If I didn't leave now, I'd miss class.
"Alright. Thanks."
I opened the door and slid in. The scent of citrus and woody cologne filled the car. I set my bag at my feet and buckled up.
"What's Professor Hoffman covering today?"
"Comorbidity identification in clinical diagnosis."
"Oh." He merged into the morning traffic in the Bronx. "DSM-5 or ICD-11?"
I turned to look at him. "You know this stuff?"
"My brother studies it," he smiled, a hint of resignation in his eyes. "He forced a bunch of books on me. I'm not formally trained, but I love this kind of thing. Don't you think it's fascinating? The human brain—so much we don't know."
He spoke with surprising insight. I found myself engaged, chatting about my field. He actually kept up. He'd read more than I expected.
After we crossed the Harlem River Bridge, traffic slowed. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a thick hardcover, setting it in my lap.
"Oh, right. Last time you mentioned wanting Ernst Kretschmer's early essays. Found this on my bookshelf. Figured I'd bring it."
I glanced at the cover. Dark brown cloth, gold lettering, worn spine.
I opened to the title page—Hermann Publishing, 1925.
First edition, first printing. Of course I knew this book.
Kretschmer's early essays were already rare.
English first editions in hardcover? Nearly impossible to find.
When one surfaced, it went for four figures minimum.
"Nick, I can't take this."
"It's just a book." Nick's tone was casual. "It's gathering dust at my place. In your hands, someone actually reads it. I prefer the latter."
"But this edition—"
"Ryan." He smiled. "Don't treat it like some precious thing. It's a book."
I looked at his sincere expression, then down at the book in my lap. Gratitude welled up. I couldn't refuse. "Thank you."
We reached campus. I unbuckled, grabbed my bag and the book, and stepped out. I turned back to thank Nick again. He just waved me off, said he'd see me after class.
I walked into the classroom and learned from classmates that the professor was running late. I found a seat by the window, opened Nick's book, but my mind drifted.
Lately, I'd been running into Nick way too often.
When I brought Rose back from the garden, he'd just be leaving the sunroom.
When I went to the kitchen for Rose's strawberries, he'd be chatting with Rosa the cook.
When I left the library with an armload of books, he'd round the corner with a coffee cup.
"Oh, Ryan, perfect timing. Victoria's out, the housekeeper made coffee, brewed extra. Want some?"
Every time, a few words, polite, perfectly timed. I had no interest in that kind of socializing, especially since he was Victoria's friend.
My life had finally stabilized. I mean with Ronan. Our conversations centered on Rose, and Rose's progress was visible every day.
She no longer just passively followed my lead.
She'd seek me out, her speech growing more fluid.
One day, while I was updating treatment notes, she appeared in the doorway holding Luna.
"Ryan, Luna sneezed." I nearly threw my pen.
Emily took Luna to the vet—just a mild reaction to cat grass.
But Rose came to me, speaking a complete sentence.
That alone was enough to excite me for days.
When that progress reached Ronan, Declan showed up the next day with lavender.
"Miss Clark, Mr. Valerius asked me to convey his congratulations."
"He can't say it himself?"
Declan adjusted his glasses. "He's in a meeting."
"Oh." I took the lavender and stuck it in a glass jar. "Tell him thanks."
"I will." Declan paused. "Also, Mr. Sterling will be visiting Miss Romanova this afternoon. If you pass the sunroom, please take another route."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Mr. Valerius prefers outsiders not disturb your routine."
I almost laughed. Ronan Valerius, that stubborn man, had energy to spare worrying about who might disturb my routine. His logic was truly something.
The professor's arrival snapped me back. I focused on the lecture. Three classes later, it was 4:15. I put the book in my bag, planning to hit the library. At the front entrance, Nick's car was parked there.
"You're still here?"
"Waiting for you." He pocketed his phone. "Done with class?"
"Yeah, but I—"
"There's a new bookstore nearby." He cut me off. "Spinoza Street, eight-minute walk. Owner's a retired philosophy professor from Columbia. Seventy percent used books. I passed by earlier—you'd like it."
A used bookstore on Spinoza Street. That temptation was like dangling warm chocolate cake in front of someone starving. I told myself—twenty minutes, then back to the manor.
"Okay."
The bookstore was better than Nick described. Wooden shelves crammed to the ceiling, yellowed books neatly arranged, the old floorboards creaking underfoot. The owner was a white-bearded old man in reading glasses, sipping tea behind the counter, never looking up at anyone who entered.
Nick and I wandered for over half an hour. He knew the philosophy section well, pointing out obscure phenomenology translations. I crouched at the bottom shelf, flipping through vintage journals, hunting for a 1970s bound volume of The American Psychologist.
Dust from the bottom shelf rose up. My knees ached from crouching. My fingers just reached that yellowed hardcover when another hand covered mine from above, fingertips pressing against the back of my hand, not immediately withdrawing.
I knew that hand. Nick.
I slowly looked up. Nick crouched beside me, less than a foot away, smiling warmly, his eyes openly affectionate.
I pulled my hand back, stood up, stepped back half a step, nearly tripping over the shelf behind me.
Nick stood too, holding the journal I hadn't grabbed, completely unembarrassed.
"This one?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Come on, I'll buy you coffee."
Outside the bookstore, the wind had cooled. We walked along Spinoza Street toward the café. I spent the whole walk figuring out how to say this. Finally realized there was no gentle way. Might as well be direct.
"Nick. There's something I need to make clear."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Let's hear it."
"You keep running into me at the manor, driving me to school today, giving me books, waiting after class, bringing me to the bookstore—" I stopped and faced him. "These aren't things friends do."
He stopped too. "You're sharper than I thought. I figured I'd need two more weeks of setup."
"So yes."
"Yes." He was forthright. "I'm interested in you."
His directness left me momentarily speechless. I quickly regrouped and looked up at him. "What about Victoria?"
"What do you mean?"
"You and Victoria, I thought you two—"
"Ryan, I've known Victoria since she was fifteen. To me, she's more like a little sister who needs watching." He shrugged. "And that type of woman—blonde, red lips, designer head to toe—zero interest."
He looked at me, voice serious. "What I like is independent, clear-headed women with their own thoughts, their own passions. Like you."
His confession was direct and earnest. I still felt awkward. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, he continued. "You don't need to answer now, Ryan. I'm not the type who needs an immediate response."
"Okay."
We reached the intersection. He handed me the journal and the Kretschmer. "Let's call it here. Back to the manor. Actually, let me drive you?"
"No need, I'll catch a cab."
"Be safe."
I got back to the manor at nine. I checked Rose's room first. Emily had already put her to bed; I wasn't needed tonight. I showered, changed into pajamas, sat on the bed edge staring at Nick's Kretschmer for nearly ten minutes before grabbing my phone and calling Lulu.
"Hello? Babe, how was today?"
"Lulu, we have a situation."
"Who messed with you?"
"Nicholas Sterling."
"Who?"
"Victoria's friend. You've seen him."
"Oh! That clean-cut, gentle one?" Lulu's voice pitched up. "What happened?"
I told her everything. Lulu let out a long sigh.
"Ryan, I'm conflicted right now."
"How so?"
"On one hand, this Nick sounds genuinely great," Lulu said slowly.
"Rich, considerate, understands your psychology stuff, cultured, refined, looks like some gentle boss from a movie.
Men like that in New York are like endangered species.
But on the other hand—" She paused, her tone turning serious.
"Ryan, he's Victoria's friend! Victoria, who treats you like public enemy number one. "
"Count how many times they've come and gone from that house together. How could he not know Victoria hates you? He knows, and he's still circling you. something's off, Ryan."
I bit my lower lip. "But he said Victoria's just like a sister to him."
"Sweetheart, everyone says that!" Lulu's tone was brisk. "Babe, listen to me. You've got it hard enough at the manor. Don't wade into this mess and make it worse."
I rubbed my throbbing temples. "Actually, I'm not even into him."
"Then this is even simpler."
"But he gave me a rare book."
"Return it." Lulu didn't hesitate. "Tell him straight you're not interested. Clean break, no loose ends."
"Got it."
I hung up, tossed my phone on the pillow, stared at the ceiling awhile—I decided. I'd find time to meet Nick and clear this up.
The next day at noon, after finishing Rose's session in the garden, I was walking her back inside. Just as we stepped into the main hall corridor, Victoria emerged from the living room.
"Ryan."
"Morning." I nodded as flatly as possible, preparing to steer Rose past her.
"Rose, sweetheart, Emily made your favorite strawberry tart. She's waiting for you in the dining room." Victoria crouched down, speaking softly to Rose. Rose looked at me. I nodded. She let go of my hand and headed toward the dining room alone.
I turned to leave. Victoria called after me.
"Ryan, wait."
I braced for her usual cold mockery.
"I heard you had dinner with Nick yesterday?"
Word traveled fast, though we hadn't actually had dinner. I didn't bother correcting the detail. "We met up."
"Nick's a really good man." Victoria didn't press further, instead praised him unprompted. "I've known him for over ten years. He graduated from Columbia Law, runs his own asset management firm now. Most importantly—he's the type who genuinely respects women."
"Yeah."
"If you're interested in him, I'm completely supportive.
" She took two steps forward, lowering her voice.
"Ryan, let me be real with you. I actually respect you.
You deserve someone who truly values you.
Don't waste your time on those—" She paused, leaving the second half unsaid.
"Anyway, Nick's a good choice. Think about it. "
I stared. This woman had wanted me gone since day one. I get a cat, she screams. I read to Rose, she barges in. Now she stood here like some eager matchmaker. This was wrong.
"Thanks for the advice." I finally said. "I'll think about it."
"Good girl." Victoria patted my hand and turned toward the dining room. My suspicion deepened. What was she playing at? Whatever. Deal with Nick first.
I texted Nick.
"Can we meet? I need to talk to you."
He replied instantly. "When? Where?"
"Tomorrow, 3 PM. Starbucks by my campus."
"Got it. I'll be there."
The next day at three, I sat in the corner. Nick walked in right on time, spotted me, came over, and sat down.
"Ryan. Good afternoon."
I took a deep breath and let it out. "Afternoon, Nick. I thought about it all night. I should tell you directly. I don't have those feelings for you."
He didn't speak immediately.
"I really appreciate your concern. That's all genuine and good. But I can't give you more than friendship. I don't want you wasting time on someone with no potential, and I don't want things between us to get awkward."
After I finished, he looked at me, expression calm throughout. After a few seconds, he smiled.
"Thanks for being so direct."
"I don't like beating around the bush."
"I understand." He nodded. "I won't push. If you only see friends, then we're friends."
I relaxed. "Thank you. Also, the book...I should return it."
"Don't." He shook his head. "What's given is given. Consider it a new semester gift from a friend."
I started to argue, but seeing his attitude, I knew insisting would seem ungrateful. "Okay then. Thanks."
I thought the conversation was over. I'd said what needed saying, and he'd accepted my rejection gracefully. So I grabbed my bag from beside me, preparing to leave.
"Ryan. One last thing, will you have dinner with me?"
I froze. "Dinner?"
"Think of it as putting a proper period on this brief...I don't know what to call it, flirtation? You said you don't want things to get awkward between us. I don't either. Let's give this a proper ending, so neither of us needs to mention it again."
I wanted to refuse, but Nick made perfect sense. From a social standpoint, a goodbye dinner wasn't an unreasonable request. Eat, then go our separate ways. Nothing to make a fuss about.
I nodded. "Okay."
"You pick the time."
"This weekend. Saturday night."
"I'll find the place." He said. "I'll pick somewhere appropriate and let you know."
"Okay."