Mogul (Manhattan #2)(48)

“I’ve endorsed your Broadway production company—”

“You did, but it was your gift to me, and it’s in the black now. No longer needing your contributions. I’m in full control.”

“You fucked me over before, you think I’m going to let you fuck me over again? You’re sadly mistaken.”

“Ian.” She rushes to stand before me. “She’s a young little thing. Excited. Think about it. I’ll give her the part—IF you give me another chance.”

I take a long, hard look at my almost ex-wife, wondering what I ever saw in her. There’s greed in her eyes, and very little in her heart to recommend her.

“Work may have destroyed our marriage, but my money destroyed you.” I shake my head in warning, narrowing my eyes. “She has talent. She’ll get her big break, and if she doesn’t, at least she wouldn’t have sold her soul or someone else to get it.”

“Think about it, Ian!” She calls as I storm out of our West End home. “You pretend you don’t care, but let’s see how you feel when she’s devastated she lost the part and you could have done something to help her. You’re broken, Ian. I mean, let’s be realistic. What can you offer her?”

I turn around and face her. Broken? I don’t remember what that feels like. Not now that I have Sara. “I’m not, not anymore,” I say in full honesty.

A shocked, bleak look crosses her features, as if I’ve slapped her. “You can’t care about anything but work, it’s what you know you’re good at.”

I shake my head. “All these years. And you don’t know me at all.” I fling open the front door. “I’ll see you at Wahlberg’s.”

And with that I step out.





FINALISTS


Sara



My second day auditioning, this time with the eleven finalists, and the bitch blonde was late to arrive. Now she’s been watching me dance up on stage with a pen in her lips and her eyes narrowed.

“Wonderful job, everyone. We’ll call you,” one of the directors tells us after we finish the piece.

Exhaling as I step off the platform, I grab my duffel and change my dancing shoes for my sneakers.

“Sara.”

I turn to see the blonde bitch.

“You’re our top contender for the lead. Just wanted you to know.”

I blink, completely taken aback by the nearly blinding megawatt smile on her face. “I am?”

The blonde continues giving me that winning smile. “You are. I have it on the highest authority that you’re in.”

I’m so mind-blown, I’m pretty sure my brain is about to explode as I head outside. I got the lead. I got the lead in a Broadway show. I step out onto the streets and feel like jumping, screaming, throwing myself to the ground, and kicking in glee. But of course I do none of that. I just pump my fist in the air and then try to compose myself as I head toward the train station. That’s when I spot Becka crossing the street. “Becka, what are you doing here?”

“I’m roaming the streets, getting inspiration.”

“You’re crazy. Where are you even sleeping?” I demand.

“Don’t worry—I’ve got myself the best, most unbelievably hot roommate. Some guy who missed his flight too; turns out we know each other’s families, and he’s helping me get my muse.”

“What guy?” I ask, narrowing my eyes in suspicion over the twinkle in her eye. And that’s when my gaze locks past her shoulder on to a figure behind her. A figure leaning against a black SUV. A figure in a Suit. A figure I have touched, kissed, and licked.

Ian Ford, my Dirty Workaholic Film Mogul Extraordinaire, is standing there next to a dog. Next to Milly. My eyes widen. I head over. “What are you doing here?”

Ian doesn’t even break a sweat. “Mills misses you. You said you’d bring a replacement. Turns out today I was it.”

“Ian.” I laugh and chide him with a shake of my head, unable to keep my heart from backflipping. “It’s so bad of me to have done that to your Gran.”

“That’s all right. I already know how bad you are.” He opens the back passenger door of his SUV. Milly hops onto the seat, and Ian opens the front door for me.

“You’re worse. You look all serious, but I know how dirty you are,” I whisper, going up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. He lifts his head to Becka.

Shit, did I really forget she was standing there gaping?

“Does your friend want a ride?”

“Becka, get over here.” I wave her forward. “Becka, this is Ian.”

She seems tongue-tied as they shake hands. “I don’t need a ride, thank you.” She sounds all mousy and sweet with Ian, but then pulls me to the side and gives me a giddy-shocked death glare.

“Bitch!”

“I know.” I groan as I peek at Ian behind me. “He’s taken, okay?”

“By you?”

“No. He’s married, remember—but getting divorced. And I’m next.” I kick her feet with a grin, then tell her, “Now tell me about this guy.”

“I can’t, he’s waiting for me—” She points across the street, where now it’s my turn to gape at the figure leaning on a lamppost, watching us. Tall and lean, with sandy, messed-up hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket and a silver cuff around his wrist.