Mogul (Manhattan #2)(49)

“Who is he?” I murmur.

“My hero. More like antihero. You’ll read all about it in my book if I can even get my bitch muse back.” She smirks and waves me off. “I’ll be in touch, I promise.” She heads across the street to the gorgeous guy, who I almost suspect is some sort of movie star. He seems oddly familiar.

Seeing him smirk at her as she reaches him, I watch them in curiosity while I walk back to the car and climb in the passenger seat. “How’s my favorite little pooch?” I reach back and scratch behind Milly’s ear.

She licks my palm, and I giggle. Aware of my Hot Workaholic watching me with a smile on his lips, my whole body turns warm. I don’t know if this casual dating thing is working for me.

My feelings for my Dirty Workaholic have never been casual at all.

Worrying about it, especially after what my mother went through, I’m concerned his wife may be going through the same pain despite her being the one who betrayed him. I ache to know that it’s over so that I can feel more certain about Ian’s interest in me. But I don’t want my confused feelings for Ian to dampen my excitement, so I shake that out of my thoughts.

“How is your Gran and the replacement I sent?”

“She’s good. They’re both good. But I promised I’d steal you away for an evening, and today seems as good a day as any.”

I sigh happily and stroke the back of Milly’s ear. “I’m so glad to see you two.”

“Hard day?”

“Awful. But I made it.” I grin.

He tips my chin back. “Of course you did,” he says, his eyes gleaming with pride and something else, something unreadable.

His jaw squares as he squeezes it, turning his attention to the road.

He stops me by my apartment so I can quickly shower and change out of my sweaty clothes, then we head to SoHo and have dinner with Mrs. Ford. During dessert, Mrs. Ford asks the most pressing question of all.

“How is the divorce coming along, Ian, dear?”

Ian doesn’t hesitate from shoving a forkful of apple pie into his mouth. He munches slowly, looking at her, and then at me, as he swallows and chases it with some wine. “We should sign this month.”

His dark eyes gleam at me. I feel the look all over. In my sex, my nipples, and somewhere deeper. I pull my gaze free and try not to make eye contact for the rest of the evening.

I should be happy about his divorce coming through soon, but I’m sick of hearing it’s coming and still, it’s not here yet. What if it never comes?



*



He drives me home that evening. The air between us crackles with mutual frustration.

“Spit it out,” he says as we leave Mrs. Ford’s.

“You spit it out. I just told you I got the part of my dreams and you said nothing! Speaking of your upcoming divorce doesn’t help my mood one bit.” I sigh.

I wanted to go back to his place and use his stupid toothpaste again. I know, crazy that doing stuff like that—sharing things with him—gets me off. But there it is. This man is making me lose it. And it’s because I’m losing it that I told him I should go home and rest and wait for my call.

“The producer of that show is my soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“What?” I blink. “Oh wow. That blonde bitch from hell?”

“That’s her.”

I stare out the window. No wonder the blonde was such a bitch to me. She knows I’m fucking her husband. I feel sick, my stomach clutching as bile rises up my throat.

“And you knew, Ian!”

“I didn’t know you were auditioning for her that first time. I found out today.”

“How did you find out?”

“She told me.”

“You still talk to her?”

He shoots me a get-real look. “I haven’t for a year. It’s over. This was different.”

“Why?” I cry. I’m jealous and confused and distraught and emotional.

“Because it was about you,” he lashes.

“Take me home.”

“I’m taking you to mine.”

“No. I said take me home.” I’m scowling now. Enraged, and needing some time to stew on my own. “I thought it was over between you!”

“For me it is. It’s over, Sara. But I’m afraid she’ll make your life a living hell if you take this part.”

I shoot him a frustrated, hopeless, angry look. “I won’t let that stop me. It’s my shot, Ian.”

He mumbles under his breath, shaking his head.

He drives the rest of the way in silence, and I ride chewing my nails. It’s only until he stops before my apartment, wedging his SUV in between the narrow streets and traffic, that I realize I don’t have my apartment key.

“I think…Fuck. I forgot my key.”

His phone rings. “Sorry I’ve got to take this.” He glances at the door of my building, which doesn’t open without my key. “Go inside, I’d rather you not freeze. Yeah?” he barks.

I head toward the door and ring my apartment number as I text Bryn. Hey. I’m here! Forgot my key! No answer. Bitch, open up, I’m freezing my ass!

“That’s so odd.”

Behind me I hear a groan, and a moody, “Stop licking my balls. I’ll stop by—you owe me big time.” He hangs up and I hear, loudly, “Nothing?”