Mogul (Manhattan #2)(13)

“Four Seasons, our usual room?” I inquire as she hands over the papers.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks.” I turn to leave. “Call me if you need me. I’ll probably have Wi-Fi on the flight as well.”

“Oh, and Mr. Ford,” she calls as I turn back to the door. She hesitates when Jake lingers by my side. Jake takes a hint and slaps my back and wishes me a safe flight before he gives us a moment alone. “Thanks for the wedding gift—it was very generous,” Pepper finally says.

I shake my head ruefully. “Glad you liked the home sound system. And I apologize I won’t make it to the wedding.”

She laughs and waves it off as if I’ve just said something completely crazy. “Oh, I never expected you to.”

“You didn’t?” I’m confused for a second.

“You’re generous with your money but quite a pinchpenny with your time, Mr. Ford. Oh! And I meant no offense.”

She flushes beet red, and I stare at her for a moment.

Jesus. Is this me? Am I known to be this… cold? I shake it off, granting her a smile. “I wish you all the happiness, Pepper. I’ll see you when you return.”

I mean my well wishes. I’m jaded, that’s true, and maybe even bitter over what happened with Cordelia, but I hope that the happiness can still be true for someone. Especially Pepper, who’s worked her butt off for me for years. I’ve never met anyone more loyal.

I head out of the studio to find my Mercedes sports car parked at the curb. The top is down, so I swing my briefcase into the passenger seat and then settle behind the wheel.

“Good day, Mr. Ford,” my personal valet says.

“Same to you, Pedro. Don’t miss me too much.”

“Will try not to, sir. And this beauty, either.” He roves his eyes lovingly across my car.

I laugh at that and hit the pedal. I head straight to my Bel-Air home, ready to get packed and catch an early flight to JFK tomorrow. As I drive, I remember Sara that day in the cab—and a part of me even fantasizes about finding her right where I saw her that first time. In the damn taxi line. I’m surprised how much I want her ass in my hand and her tongue on mine. How much I want this bold girl to come for me again.

I avoid complications at all costs. Even my assistant, Pepper, is older than me by a decade and a half. Not because I don’t trust myself with a woman, but because I was married and never wanted Cordelia and me to have unnecessary misunderstandings. Especially with me traveling so much.

Sara is a complication. The kind I prefer to avoid. Especially since my divorce is far from settled. And I’m far from open to emotional entanglements at the moment. Still, the idea of being in the same city has me restless. Wired.

I’ve worked myself to the bone these past months. Trying to forget that night we fucked each other senseless. It’s no use. The more I try to forget, the more the memories come back to haunt me.

I might as well dive in. See her again. Know her full name, her likes, what makes her tick—figure out why I’m so obsessed with her. That’s the only way to get her out of my mind.

For the first time in over a year, New York holds strong appeal. The memory of her has only made me crave to go back for more and more. She’s the first thing that’s made me feel alive in too damn long. Her pussy was great, but her brazenness and that saucy mouth are what keep me awake at night.

Tonight is no exception. I wander the halls of my Bel-Air home at midnight. It’s a three-bedroom that I bought after I moved out of my West End apartment.

I’d thought to make a life here, in Los Angeles. And though business has flourished, I eye my spacious rooms and the palm trees out in the perfectly manicured lawns and it’s not me.

I’m still a Manhattan man deep down. It’s time I let my wife—soon to be ex-wife—stop ruining my life and driving me away from what I want.

I love fucking New York City—it’s my home, and always will be.

Time to seal the deal, start over, and hell, yes, if it’s what I want, take Sara to Daniel for dinner.

I punch my lawyer’s number as I climb into my silk drawstring pajamas for bed.

“Wahlberg. I’ve been thinking.”

“When aren’t you thinking? You’re a machine. You need more feeling and less thinking, Ford.”

“I’ve been feeling,” I announce, a bit exaggeratedly, “really desperate here. And I’ve reconsidered the plan you mentioned the other day.”

“Ahhh, the hardball plan. I tell you, with a woman like Cordelia, you need to—”

“Let’s do it,” I say, cutting him off.

“Come again?”

“Let’s do it. I can’t play nice anymore. I’m sick of her credit card bills, her phone calls, and getting jet rental invoices as she traipses around the world with any boy toy she can find. I’m not this man, Wahlberg. I’m not the one who’s been made a fool of for more than a fucking year.”

“Well, Hallelujah, he’s pissed now.”

“Not pissed. Just ready to do this on my terms. Get it done.”

After that last instruction, I hang up.

It gives me no pleasure to play hardball. Usually people respect me enough not to push me to the limit or encourage me to go there. But I’ll never be free if I don’t do this with her; and no matter how many wrongdoings I committed in our marriage, I fucking loved her. I tried my best. I deserve a shot at being happy again and I plan to pursue whatever gives me a glimpse of that feeling. And when I find it, I’m never letting it go.