Page 81 of Endless Love

I could feel her body tense up. “I-I don’t know.”

I parted her curtain of hair. “What do you mean you don’t know?” Anger crept into my voice.

“Simply, I don’t know. I’m tired. It’s been a long, emotional day. I don’t want to talk about it. Or him.”

Him?My blood curdled. “Fine,” I snapped back, wishing I’d taken the bastard out or at least kicked him in the balls so hard he could never walk, dance, or fuck again.

Willow spent the night, spooned naked in my arms in my new bed. Exhausted, she fell asleep quickly while I stayed up for hours worrying about our future. I loved Willow Rosenthal with all my heart and soul, and I didn’t want to lose her.

After a few hours of shuteye, I woke up early at seven while Willow remained fast asleep. Slipping out of bed, I admired her as she rolled over onto her back, her flaming red hair fanned out on the white bedding, her chest rising and falling. My sleeping beauty, in her naked glory except for my necklace around her neck, the diamonds of the ballet slipper charm capturing the morning sun. Quietly, I threw on my robe and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee before heading outside to retrieve my Sunday New York Times. My Sunday morning ritual. When Allee was alive, we always purchased the paper at a nearby newsstand on a Saturday night, but after her passing, I had it delivered. It was too hard to visit that newsstand.

The paper tucked under one arm, I marched back upstairs with two mugs of steaming hot coffee. To my surprise, Willow was awake sitting up in the bed, my comforter pulled up over her chest. Propped against the pink tufted headboard, she looked like a pre-Raphaelite beauty.

“Hi, baby,” I said brightly. “You sleep well?”

She twitched a small smile. “Yeah, I did.”

Not telling her about my tormented night, I handed her one of the mugs and rejoined her in bed.

She lifted the mug and inhaled. “Mmm, the coffee smells so good.” She took a sip as I set the thick Sunday paper down on the bed. It didn’t get better than this on a Sunday morning—fresh coffee, the Times, and the girl you loved. The tumultuous events of last night drifted to the back of my mind.

Sipping my coffee, I flipped through the paper until I found my favorite section. The section I always began my Sundays with. The New York Times Book Review. I immediately turned to the bestseller lists. My book, Undying Love, was back on the mass-market chart. Number One. My appearance on Good Morning America and the recent announcement that Ryan Reynolds had been chosen to play opposite Emma Stone had re-kindled interest in the book. I smiled while Willow pulled out the Arts and Leisure section.

“Oh my God!” she cried out, startling me.

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a review of the ballet on the front page!”

My pulse quickened. I was more anxious than thrilled.

“What does it say?”

She began to read it out loud, beginning with the headline, and with every word, I could feel my blood pressure rising.

Headline: A Firebird on Fire

The Royal Latvia Ballet may have shined last night during a benefit of performance of Stravinsky’s masterpiece, choreographed by Gustave Fontaine at Lincoln Center’s Howard Koch Theater, but principal dancer, Willow Rose, who played the title role of the Firebird, literally shimmered, her feathers glowing and in perfect form. Her speed, precision, and artistic expression made sparks fly, bringing the audience to their feet. Known mostly in Europe, this a dancer to watch. She is bound to set the dance world on fire.

My chest tightened as Willow’s voice trailed off with the glowing review of her coupling with Gustave. Stunning…dazzling… explosive chemistry…a match made in heaven. I wanted to puke.

Lowering the paper, my companion clasped her mouth.

“Oh my God! I need to go.”

My nerves buzzing, I shot her a puzzled expression.

“I need to get over to my dad’s deli. Before he reads this or some customer tells him about it.”

“He doesn’t know you danced last night at Lincoln Center?” I asked, now wondering why her father wasn’t there.

Setting her mug of coffee on the nightstand, she jumped out of the bed. All naked. All panicked. In a frenzy, she slipped on her red cocktail dress, which I’d folded over my desk chair, and then retrieved her stilettos. She cursed under her breath as her bandaged toes squeezed into the spiky shoes.

“Ryan, do you have something I can borrow? I mean, something I can wear over my dress?”

Five minutes later, wearing my way too big overcoat, she dashed out of my loft.

Leaving me alone with a cold cup of coffee and my New York Times.

I tore up the Arts and Leisure section and then went for a run.

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