“Sheshus, that’s fucking killer, Sara.” He slams a hand down on the table in emphasis, clearly thrilled.
“No, it’s not! He’s fucking married, Jensen.”
“Say what?” Jensen shifts forward in his seat, shaking his head in complete disbelief. “Fuck. Okay.” He drags a hand across his face. “No matter. It’s never a mistake when you get the O, you know what I mean? And you did get the O. Didn’t you?”
I groan. “God! Multiple times. That guy is so good he could make me O just from kissing. But he’s married. In the process of getting divorced, but that’s what they all say, right? I’m not that girl, Jensen!” I feel my frustration rise as I talk about it, and I swallow a huge gulp of coffee to calm it down.
“Forget him. Tell him ‘thanks for the O, but that’s all you’re good at.’ And move on. Get out more. Can I introduce you to some friends? I know a few people who can take care of the sex issue, no strings. A fuck-buddy type of thing.”
“In their dreams, Jensen!” I burst out laughing.
“The wet ones,” he says, tongue in his cheek.
“You’re disgusting.”
He mulls it over, chuckling. “What happened with his marriage? Do you know?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” I fiddle with my coffee cup. “There’s such chemistry between us. It’s unreal.” I frown. “But then he told me his situation, and I said it was over and walked out. I’m jealous, you know? Just thinking that some other woman has rights to him.” But last night he was looking at you with raw possession, Sara. Ugh. Stop it, little voice.
“I don’t want anyone else to have him, but I am definitely not looking forward to something this complex and… complicated. I’m scared he’s working me out of his system in men’s usual ways—maybe even using me to get over the ex or whatever.” I sigh drearily.
“Is it a mutual decision to divorce?”
“I have no idea. I should’ve asked. Instead, I panicked, saw the red flags, and left.”
“Then take it as closure and move on. If not me, have Bryn set you up on a date.”
“I don’t know, Jen—things with Christos are over, and I’m not sure she can move on that easily,” I say. “This time I had a second-night stand. Give me one reason why it wouldn’t feel like closure?” I ask him, confused.
“Easy.” Jensen runs a hand through his perfect hair and leans back against the chair rest. “You want more of the big D.”
“Oh! He has a very nice D and I wouldn’t mind more of it. But it just…” I shake my head, suddenly angry at him. Fucking Ian Ford. “I want him to want me; that’s not typically me. I’m usually dreading that they’ll call again, Jen.”
“Damn, that’s a problem.”
“I know.” I sigh and glance at my watch. “Okay. I need to head to the office. Bryn must be waiting, and there’s something going down with Christos that I’m worried about. I’ll let you know when I know more.”
“Please do. I’m a hairsbreadth away from hunting Christos down and beating him up for hurting her.”
“I know you are. I know you love Bryn.” I kiss the top of his head and take my coffee with me.
“Sara. What about the auditions?” he asks.
“Still waiting for the call. Hoping something else will come up. The more auditions, the better the possibilities, right?”
“Damn right. Break a leg, princess,” he says.
“I already did once!” I yell back, glaring down at my coffee.
I’m about to board the train when I get a text from my saved number at Daniel.
François:
Ian Ford, mademoiselle.
You’re welcome.
Trembling, I’m about to text back my thank you when I get a call from Robert.
“Sara, you won’t believe who’s at the hotel right now. He just ordered room service.”
I shuffle onto the train and take a seat, clutching my phone tight as the image of Ian surrounded by office papers comes back to haunt me.
“Until when is his room booked?”
“Only until tomorrow, unfortunately. But he’s back in 1103. His name is Ian—”
“Ford. I know. I just found out.” I exhale. “Thanks, Robert.”
My hand trembles as I end the call and stare down at my phone, wondering what I’m going to do with this little piece of information. He’s in town until tomorrow. When he leaves, will he ever come back? Will I ever see him again? Do I want to?
Ian
“Mr. Ford? Did you hear me?”
I pull my thoughts away from last night when I hear my New York assistant at the door. I turn. “I heard you.” Exasperated with myself, I motion for her to set the script revisions on my desk.
I head over and skim the pages, unable to concentrate. We’re producing a documentary on garbage. Glamorous, I know, but trust me, it’s good. I’m proud of our concept.
Can’t say I’m as proud of how things went down yesterday.
My gut roils as I remember the look on Sara’s face when I told her. Her eyes shone with terrible emotions, and I was the cause. I hated myself right then. I thought I was the victim when Cordelia fucked me over. But what am I doing with Sara?
When the door shut behind her, my heart was stampeding, my lungs, my legs, my arms tensing in anticipation.
Because I wanted to chase after her.
I still plan to.
I know how to get her number. My grandmother would never deny me anything. If Sara doesn’t want to see me again, I’ll understand. I’ll at least make it up to her in some way.
I’m wrapping up reading the new script when my cell phone rings and Wahlberg’s name appears on my screen. I lean back in my chair and tap to answer.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got good news. We’ve had the talk with your accountant like you requested. Threatened to remove your business if he didn’t come forward with the truth. And he’s willing to testify to his affair with your wife.”
“Good. Finally there’s something.” I run my hand along the back of my neck, suddenly tense with the anticipation. I need this circus over with. “Call Cordelia. Let her know the minute details of the situation and tell her my offer for the house and half my money still stands. I just want to get this over with at last.”
“I’ll update you.”
I hang up, almost reluctant to believe that it’s finally coming to an end.
I want to be free of her and the constraints she keeps binding around me. I want her out of my life. I don’t forgive betrayal easily. I surround myself with few people, but those who I keep close mean more to me than anything. I will never forget a betrayal. Nor would I ever betray or lie to one of my own the way she did me.
Pushing that thought away, I jump back to the matter at the forefront of my mind since last night, and I dial my grandmother.
“How’s my girl?” I ask when she answers.
“Oh, Ian.” She giggles. “Am I seeing you for dinner as planned?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m making meatballs, your favorite.”
“I’m salivating already. Listen, Gran. How about you call the dog walker, Sara, so she and I can take Milly out for you tonight?”
“She was coming this afternoon for Milly’s walk. I was planning to cook your meatballs while they were out.”
“Good. Something’s come up at the office and I’ll be free early.”
“Ian Ford!” she chides before I can end the call.
Reluctantly, I raise the phone back up. “What?”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. I want you to know that I fully, wholeheartedly, very thoroughly… approve.”
I smile, relieved, and run my hand over my jaw. I don’t want her to get her hopes up. I’m still not eager to jump back into a relationship, not after the last one I had. But I crave Sara in a way I haven’t craved anything but work for a long, long time.
I owe it to myself to find out why she has this effect on me.
/>
I will buy myself some time with her, somehow. Some way.
If only Sara thought of me half as positively as my grandmother does, it might even be easy to ask her out for an evening.
Fuck if I haven’t looked forward to a date in a long time.
Sara
I’m dog-walking for Mrs. Ford this evening, and I can’t help but dread what I have to say. But there’s really no choice, is there? I can’t risk bumping into him. Not when I’m not certain yet of what there is between us, or if there can even be anything serious between us. I need space and I need to think, and one thing I know for certain is that Ian doesn’t let me think at all. But the fact that I may not see him ever again fucks me up quite a bit. Guest in room 1103. Handsome and almost like some dream, gone before I could hardly remember, but definitely addictive.
It seems the guy is not only on my mind, because he’s the first thing Mrs. Ford mentions when I walk into her apartment that evening. “My grandson hasn’t been in town for a while. He’s going through a very ugly divorce.”
“Oh.”
“It’s been going on for a while, but that little tramp he married just can’t let go.” She shakes her head. “That’s what he gets for marrying a woman more interested in his money than his happiness.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a film producer. Mostly documentaries. He travels for work a lot. I admit he doesn’t like being in the city anymore, and with good reason!”
“Mrs. Ford,” I say as she moves around the kitchen in a floral caftan and enough jewels to open her own store.
“Yes, dear?”
“I don’t know that I can continue walking Milly. Bryn is about to open her business, and as her PA, I’m going to be much busier. I also do some catalogue modeling on the side, and it’s time-consuming as well.”
“You’re modeling, Sara?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling self-conscious as she turns to scrutinize me, “but I told her to cut my face off the images.”
“Why on earth?” She sounds aghast.
“I don’t know. But I would rather be doing something that stimulates my mind a little more. Posing is boring and it makes me self-conscious.”
“You have nothing to be self-conscious about; you’re gorgeous, Sara—model gorgeous, with that ballerina body and those beautiful eyes. Tell me the real reason you can’t walk Milly.”
I pause for a moment, my brain near exploding with one word.
Ian.
Ian.
Fucking IAN.
Having fucked IAN.
Wanting IAN.
“I just don’t know that I can keep coming, that’s all.” I move around the counter to help her cut vegetables as we talk. I don’t pay much attention to what I’m doing, but I need to do something.
“Is it about my grandson?”
“Excuse me?”
“He asked me when you were coming over.”
“Huh?”
The door chime rings, and Mrs. Ford raises her heavily jeweled hand. “That must be him,” she says conspiratorially with a wink, and I stiffen on my feet when, a minute later, I hear a key being inserted into the lock.
“Ian, darling!” Mrs. Ford squeals like a girl, and I hear Ian’s voice reach and tickle my ears (among other parts).
“Gran. How’s my girl today?”
My mouth dries up as I set the knife down and turn to watch him fill the living room with his ever sexy presence.
If I thought I might get lucky and the guy would have gotten a face and body transplant today, I was mistaken. He’s still my Dirty Workaholic, the most sexual being I have ever known. His repressed energy seems to bubble under the fabric of his black slacks and white dress shirt. Just like it always does.
I’m trying to suppress my reaction to his presence, but my body parts aren’t in accord with my brain. Damn him.
Mrs. Ford envelops him in her embrace, and when Ian drapes his arms around her, his height and breadth make his grandmother look delicate and tiny. She’s cooing at him as Ian lifts his eyes, and his dark, curious gaze locks on me. My heart stutters when we make eye contact. I begin to perspire as I force my feet to move forward, get Milly, and get the hell out of here.
“I should get going,” I tell Mrs. Ford before Ian can say a word. “If you’ll excuse me. Come here, Milly.” I call her, grabbing the leash from the kitchen drawer and latching it onto her collar as the dog pads over.
Ian moves forward to take Milly’s leash from my fingers. “I’ve got it.” Close to my ear, his voice is deep and low and rumbling.
I straighten, his voice rolling down my skin like a harsh kiss. There’s something intimidating and intense about the way his eyes look into me. “I came here for you,” he whispers.
“I don’t see why.”
“I’m going to finish dinner!” Mrs. Ford calls from the kitchen. “Ian, don’t come on too strong; she’s not Cordelia.”
“Thanks, Gran. I think I’ve got this,” he answers with a smirk in his eyes as he leads Milly to the door.
“I don’t think this is the time or the appropriate place,” I warn the man as he opens the door.
I step out of the apartment and stupidly get tangled between Ian and Milly.
I gasp as Ian tries to untangle me. Our bodies bump in places and it only gets his scent all over me, and allows my body to remember the hardness of his.
Freed, I step away from him and maintain my personal space as we ride the elevator down. I’m praying that he doesn’t step into my bubble and make me lose my center of gravity again.
“Can I at least have the leash?” I ask him. If I sound annoyed, it’s because I am.
He hands it over, watching me with a slight smile on his lips.
I don’t know why he’s here tonight. Or why I’m feeling flutters in my stomach.
I want to pretend that this is normal. Me, walking one of my client’s dogs with her grandson. But it’s not normal, and neither is the way this guy looks at me.
I notice, as usual, his work attire.
Does the guy do anything else except work and fuck like a god?
“You came here from work?”
We step into the lobby and then out onto the busy streets. “I did. And you?”
I nod, glancing around at the busy cafés as we start walking, trying to distract myself from him. It’s past sunset and the shoppers that usually litter the SoHo streets are already flooding the restaurants for dinner. The streets are quieter at this hour. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Usually it would be good. But with Ian beside me, I need all the distractions I can get.
“Why don’t you stay with your grandmother when you’re in town?” I decide small talk can distract me just fine. I feel calmer now as we head toward Washington Square Park, both of us staring ahead and scanning our surroundings.
“She has her own life. I’ve got mine. I don’t want to intrude.” He scoffs. “Besides, I have a home here. I just don’t use it.”
I remember the West End apartment and steer off that topic. “Do you come to the city often?”
I’m just making small talk.
Or okay. Maybe I asked just for me.
“Once a month. Though I had a project to film in LA for the past few months that kept me away.” His eyes slit as he regards me with a pointed glance, as if he means for me to know his reasons for staying away.
I gulp and pretend I don’t notice the way his eyes fall to my lips for a hot moment.
“Your parents?” I press.
“Both passed away. Boating accident.”
I stop in my tracks, mouth hanging open and heart crushed. “I’m sorry,” I finally say. He accepts my words with a brief smile, and the way his eyes sadden tugs at my heart.
A silence follows. I suppose I should hug him, but that would get him too far into my personal bubble. He’s already treading at the margins, and the topic feels so intimate too.
“Death has always had a way of frighten
ing me,” I hear myself admit.
“Just you or everybody else, you think?” One dark brow goes up in amusement.
“Ha. I suppose everyone. But it scares me to think that nothing is permanent… that nothing really lasts. Even the most precious thing we have. Life.”
This is a topic I’ve talked with Bryn about. One of the many things we’ve found that we have in common. I shrug when Ian only studies me. I hope he doesn’t think me totally out of it. “Makes it feel so fragile. Everything so elusive,” I elaborate. “My roommate’s parents died when she was young too. She recommended some books that she read, about reincarnation? I got hooked on the topic. That made me worry less.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. About dying, I suppose. That it’s not forever”
He raises a brow. “Don’t they say nothing is forever?”
“The good things should be!”
I laugh at his teasing tone and shove him playfully, and he grabs me by the waist and reels back to him, effectively breaking into my personal bubble.
Unsettled by the touch, I squirm free and regain one foot’s distance between us. I tighten my hold on Milly’s leash.
“What about you,” I press.
“What about me?”
“Tell me what you do.”
“I’m a film producer. I own a couple of production companies—mostly those developing documentaries across the world.”
“Any kids?”
“Nope.” A slight frown creases his forehead and a short, cynical laugh rumbles up his chest. “Hell, I tell Gran that I’m not marrying again. Instead, I’m getting a dog or a big, fat cat and leaving my fortune to him and Milly.”
“Oh, come on!” I laugh—but only for a moment. “I’m sure you’ll find someone.” I look up into his eyes and there are shadows there. In those gorgeous onyx eyes. I want to hit the woman who put them there. “I don’t want you to die alone.”
“It’s not about wanting—you can’t choose your time of death.” And now Ian looks amused once again.
“But you can choose the way you’re living,” I counter.