Chasing Stars (26 page)

“Yep, and I will make the sacrifice of accompanying you on a tour at the Louvre,” he informs me solemnly.

“Aren’t you a noble creature?” I sit, and snuggle on his chest.

“I’ve been branded that before.” He strokes my hair.

Paris is the last stop for the premiere and then I head back home. I smile at the knowledge that LA, where I have a house, will not be my destination. Rather, the concrete jungle I’ve grown to love.

We remain in the park until dusk, when I call Stefan. He sends the car for us, even though we’re a few minutes from the hotel. It is a pain, but I always dress back into my original outfit before returning. Certainly, some paparazzi linger, and I don’t want any tip-offs about how I get away with enjoying a regular day. Usually, I wear a wig as part of my disguise, but it would have been too weird for Will, so I ditched it for today.

We go straight to our suite and call room service to order dinner. I invite Stefan and Tarry to join us, but Tarry is going out with the Norwegian he met last night, and Stefan is going on a date with Marina. Boy, they really are enjoying this Chloe-free deal. So, it is just the two of us. Do I like? No. I love it.

We eat dinner, and then watch a rerun of one of Portia’s favorite movies. After the movie ends, I shut off the TV, and we lay with our bodies intertwined. Portia is pensive for a while. I hold her between my legs, and my arms wrap around her shoulders. I inhale the heady smell of gardenia emanating from her hair. I hear her sighing deeply. Portia is not the crying type, but she sighs. A lot. My radar catches the vibe of sadness seeping out of her.

“What’s the matter, baby?” I ask nonchalantly.

“Huh?” she responds.

“The movie made you sad,” I observe, waiting for her response.

“It is a tragedy for the father to die the way he did.” She pauses. “But imagine, having someone love you enough to die for you?”

“Love is selfless, Portia.” I stare at her.

“Do you think we could love someone and not care about that person?” she asks, and I know the question has multiple layers to it.

“Love starts as a feeling.” I straighten my hold on her. “But it has to grow into an action, or it is not enough.” I kiss her glorious hair.

“Love is patient and kind. It is not selfish or easily angered. It always trusts, hopes, and perseveres,” I recite to her.

“It’s so complicated.” She glances up at me.

“It is not, because anything shorter than that, simply, is not love.”

“But the standard is too high,” she whispers.

“No, baby. Love never fails.”

Love is profound crap, difficult to understand, and impossible to carry out. Well, I may not have said that last night, but that’s what I used to think. Awful, I know, but here is the deal. My entire life I believed loving someone is the shittiest and fastest way to get hurt. Hypocrite? Not until a few months ago. I guarded my heart, and I was very good at it, I might add.

Then, Will invaded my life and, yep, I am deeply and madly in love with him. Because of him, the beliefs on which I have based my life are changing. And, though it makes me dizzy, I am enjoying every moment of this ride. Today, I have come to believe, that love is a seed dormant in our hearts until one day someone waters it and the seeds sprout to life.

It’s seven a.m. We fell asleep after a make-out session last night after watching the movie. God, I love having him back again. I pull back from Will’s embrace and gaze at his face. He sleeps deeply, but his hand firmly grips my hips. I wonder if the thrill of him holding me will ever fade.

Mmmm, I love this man. Let me say it again. I love Will. I do. And it feels: Superb. Scary. Surreal. Intense. Consuming. Wild. Yummy. Vulnerable. Potent. Peaceful. Unfathomed. Infinite. Eternal. Please don’t ask me to elaborate any further. I've just arrived at Lovingland View.

“Morning, beautiful.” Will pulls me to him and kisses me. His overgrown, tousled hair falls across his eyes. I reach up and brush it away.

“Morning.” I kiss him back, my hand possessively skimming his naked chest. Will’s body is perfect in every way. I wonder how it will look when we are old and gray.

“What?” Will asks noticing my studious eyes.

“Nothing, can’t a girl admire her man?” I nibble on his nipples.

“Whoa, you’re going to kill me, darling,” Will’s voice is a low rumble and it is dead sexy.

“Only if I die with you,” I whisper.

“Portia, I, uh—” Will’s cell phone rings interrupting our intimate moment. Will climbs out of bed, grabs his pants, and fishes his pockets for his phone. “Hello.” He answers the call.

Perched on the bed, I observe the length of him, standing by the bed. With his chest exposed and wearing drawstring pajamas that hang from his narrow hips, Will is beyond good-looking. I grin. Will has a hard-on.

His eyes glance at the cell and he says, “I wonder who it was, the battery died.” He leans on bed and pecks me on my lips. “Can I borrow you charger?”

“Sure, it’s on the computer desk.” I admire his rear end as he walks away.

“Will, there is a script on the drawer. Would you get it, please? I want you to tell me what you think—” The look on Will’s face when he returns stops me. His face is pale. His eyes, cold and hard, shoot my way. Will’s face is contorted.

I know something is seriously wrong and fear drenches my body.

“What’s the matter?” I sprint up from bed.

“I’m such an idiot.” Will scowls at me, and a forced laughter echoes through the room. I flinch. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“Will, please, what’s going on?” I ask.

“Don’t, Portia.” He throws a tabloid newspaper on the empty bed. I glance at it and a gut-wrenching terror seizes me. With trembling fingers, I hold the tabloid with a picture of Damon and me on the cover. Damon is holding me in his arms, my hand cups his neck as we kiss. I recognize the place. They snapped the shot outside of Fabric. Bile rises in my throat. Damn.

“Listen, Will. Let me explain.”

“Just spare me.” Will rushes past me. He grabs his jeans, and swiftly changes.

“Will, please, let me explain.” My voice is so broken I don’t recognize it.

“The picture explains enough, Portia,” he snaps, crumpling his clothes inside the duffel bag.

“Will, nothing happened, I swear.” I swallow the metallic taste of horror.

His hand stills for a moment and he says with scorn, “You call that nothing?” The hurt in his eyes shatters me.

“Will, it is not like that. I texted you, you didn’t reply. I was upset,” I explain helplessly.

“So, this is how it is going to be. One day, you stop communicating and cut me from your life. On another day, you decide to grace me with a phone call. And when I don’t respond to your caprice, you get mad and jump into some asshole’s arms.” He shakes his head. “Goddamnit, Portia. That’s what it was all about yesterday, right?” He rakes his hair, “That douche bag just wanted to finish what you two started,” he spits out.

“No,” my voice falters. “Let’s talk.”

“Damn it, Portia, there is nothing to talk about,” he yells.

“Will, are you breaking up with me?” I ask. My skin itches, and my stomach roils.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He laughs. “How can I be breaking up with you, Portia? I don’t even know what to call
us
.” He exhales.

God, I’ve never seen him so angry. “Please, Will. This is new and confusing for me,” I say, fisting his shirt. He grimaces under my touch and snatches my hand away. The gesture hurts more than all his words.

“Oh, really, so let me enlighten you.” He pulls the zipper on his duffel. “Call me crazy, outdated, or even an idiot, but I envisioned a monogamous relationship.” He pulls his bag over his shoulder. “In other words: I. Don’t. Share.”

“Will, there is no one else. Please,” I whisper.

Maybe, it is the brokenness in my voice, but Will stops and stares at me. “Something happened, no matter how insignificant you think it might be. And hell, maybe for you, that’s how it works. But is different for me, Portia. I can’t bear the thought of another man touching you.”

“I am sorry, Will. Please don’t go,” I beg.

“I have to go, Portia. I need to sort all this shit out. I can’t think near you.” Without looking back, he slams the door.

My heart is shattered.

Add pain to the shitty list of being in love crap.

I dump my bag in the corner of my studio. I am emotionally and physically exhausted. For fourteen hours, I wandered through Heathrow and waited for an available seat to fly back to New York. Instead, I landed in Miami and waited another three hours for a flight to JFK.

The tight and painful ache in my chest gets bigger, gripping my heart with its lethal grasp. I feel frustrated by what Portia did. But not only that, I am also mad as hell by my unstable temper in response to the thought of someone’s hands pawing her.

The image of her kissing the douchebag flashes in my memory whenever I close my eyes. And it hurts like hell. I could just kill the dude. The picture was simply my worst fear materialized.

I remember seeing her blouse on the floor when I arrived in the hotel room. My unrestricted imagination floods with images of him ripping her clothing off and then making love to her. I shudder at the thought of him kissing her luscious lips. The lips I just devoured that last night in London. I take a sharp gulp of air. The overwhelming pain slithering in my soul was worse than that of fear.