Mogul (Manhattan #2)(30)

“What is this place?” I ask as he opens the door and switches on the lights. The townhome is absolutely gorgeous, with hardwood floors and intricate molded carvings on the ceiling. It is spacious and elegant, and it smells of lavender and tea tree, as if it’s just been cleaned.

“Are you filming here?” I take in the emptiness of the space. I can even hear my echo as I speak. “There’s so much room. Look at the little garden!” I proclaim, twirling happily in the empty living room.

“Move here. For me.”

I realize, after a beat, what Ian means.

I gape at him from across the room for a second. My Dirty Workaholic stands with his hands in his slacks pockets and lips slightly curved.

The idea of dancing here for him is so ludicrous I burst out laughing. But he looks one hundred percent determined. And oh-so-hot right now. A part of me, maybe the part that wants to strip him down to his birthday suit, wants to dance for him, too. Wants to dance, period.

Excitement bubbles in my veins as Ian pulls out a fold-out chair from behind the kitchen counter. He sets it at the far end of the room and takes a seat, facing me.

My heart drums faster and faster.

“I don’t pole dance, so don’t get your hopes up. Ballet is my first love, then I fell for hip-hop, so I guess… I’ll just dance like I know how,” I finish when I realize I’m rambling.

Closing my eyes to get in the groove, I loosen my shoulders. Bend my knees. Relax myself. Then I pop. Lock. Repeat. Slide to the side. Leap, land, and slowly come up as I slowly jerk my hips side to side, thrusting my head back along with my arms.

“You get the gig.” He smiles.

I smile too. “Ian.” I’m giddy.

He shifts forward in his chair, something intimate in his eyes as he watches me move my body in the silent room.

“Is something wrong?” I stop dancing, my stomach clutching from nerves.

He shakes his head side to side, the admiration in his eyes intensifying.

“Not at all.” That smile again. Just a little curve of his lips. That’s all. But enough to make me tingle.

“Music,” I say, grabbing my phone. I hit “Stitches” by Shawn Mendes and start dancing hip-hop. I feel more comfortable dancing to something fun and light. I also need the movement to get rid of the nerves.

I start getting into it, leaping around the room, doing fast turns during the chorus, popping this way and that, and falling to the floor. I drop down three times, roll, then leap back to my feet before I lock and pop again and twist my head to the side.

“Bravo, bravo, bravo.” He claps slowly.

“I get the gig.”

“You get the gig.”

I laugh and head toward him, lowering myself to his lap. “When do I start?”

Automatically my arms go around his neck. Ian slides his hand through the back of my smoking red dress, easing his fingers under the fabric to touch the skin of my abdomen. I giggle. “I’m sweaty; you don’t want—”

Unexpectedly, he presses his forehead down on mine, inhaling my skin as we relax in that position. “Stay still for a second. You’re hot as fuck and I like you breathless.”

His gaze falls to my lips, and my own falls to his lips. My smile fades, and the ache I feel from wanting him intensifies.

“What happened with you and your wife? Can I ask?”

There’s a pause as we stare into each other’s eyes again.

“I couldn’t make her happy.”

“That’s impossible,” I whisper.

“Trust me, it’s possible.” He lets me go and sets me on my feet, coming to his feet, too. He drags a hand across the back of his neck, then sighs and plunges his hands into his pockets. “Apparently I worked more than I paid attention to her.” He shrugs, his jaw squaring as he stares out the window. “Somewhere along the way I fell out of love with her—and she with me. I caught her with my accountant.”

“Oh my God, that’s awful!” I’m instantly shuddering on his behalf, disgusted that his wife could do this to him.

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck again before dropping his arm at his side and fisting his other hand. “I’ve been angry for a long time.”

Again, eye contact. A swift shadow of anger overcoming me.

“I’m sorry, Ian.”

“I am too. I don’t wish this on anyone.” Our eyes keep holding. “But I’m glad I walked in on them. I could’ve lived years settling for a half-assed marriage, not knowing my wife was sleeping around on me. If there’s one thing I don’t tolerate it’s being made a fool of.”

“The betrayal must have hurt.”

“It hurt just like every other disappointment hurts.”

He undoes the buttons at his cuffs and rolls his sleeves to his elbows, frowning. He has a fiery, angry look about him that’s unfamiliar to me, and it makes me want to walk over and offer him comfort.

I can’t imagine what being betrayed by the one you love and vowed to spend your whole life with feels like. I know that seeing my parents go through something similar has been devastating. Especially because neither my mother nor I saw it coming. And so the betrayal feels even worse.

I notice how my mother cannot help but wonder what she did wrong. I have done the same. Even thinking that it’s my fault, somehow, that Dad no longer loves her.