Bound by Love [NOOK Book]

Rhys Matthews jerked upright in his battered armchair, his head snapping from side to side. He groaned when he realised he’d succumbed to sleep in the old chair in his studio for the third night in a row rather than climb the stairs to the big comfortable bed in his living quarters. A frown wrinkled his forehead and he wondered what had pulled him from sleep. Not a dream, he was sure. He was too damn exhausted to dream these days. The answer to the question came before he had even finished thinking it, and he pushed himself out of the chair, moaning with discomfort as his body’s cramped muscles and aching bones made their displeasure known. He made his way down a short flight of stairs to the front door, feeling significantly older than his twenty-six years. He pulled the heavy, scarred door open and found a uniformed delivery man standing on the other side, a patient smile on his face. “Mr. Matthews?” he asked pleasantly. Rhys squinted against the early morning sun. “Uh, yes.” His voice was thick with sleep and disuse. When was the last time he had spoken to another human being? The man’s smile deepened. “Don’t sound too sure there. Haven’t had your morning coffee?” As he spoke he held out a package wrapped in thick brown paper and a clipboard. “If you would just sign here, sir.” Rhys took the package and tucked it under his arm, then reached out and scribbled his name on the line indicated. “Thank you sir. You have a good day now.” With that the delivery man turned and headed smartly in the direction of his van, parked at the end of the narrow, cobbled lane. Rhys stood in the open doorway for a couple of minutes, blinking dumbly at the package, then, giving himself a mental shake, he shut the door and climbed the stairs back to his studio. For a moment he paused to consider the canvases in front of him. He was preparing for another one-man show, and as usual, had gotten lost in his work. He couldn’t help smiling around the inevitable nervous flutter in his empty stomach. He was pleased with the way things were going. Forcing himself to move, lest he get caught up again before he had a chance to shower and eat something—when was the last time he had eaten? He grinned to himself. He’d last eaten about the same time he had spoken to another living being—the boy who had delivered the pizza two nights ago. He placed the package on the battered workbench that held his materials and would have left it there to go upstairs and sort himself some breakfast, but the neat, copperplate handwriting on the wrapping caught his attention. A thrill so intense it took his breath away ripped through his body. He reached for the package and tore at the paper with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.