Mogul (Manhattan #2)(7)

“I need a divorce. Now.”

“So you’ve said.” Mattias Wahlberg sits across the lunch table from me, just another day for my divorce lawyer. “But I have to state once more that without her consent, and without proof of her affair, it’s going to—”

“I have proof,” I say, cutting him off.

Leaning down to my briefcase, I enter the combination, click it open, and pull out the cufflinks. I drop them on the table. “These cufflinks. I’m sure they’re his.”

“You’re sure? How? We have no proof of him wearing them.”

I drop them back into my briefcase in a quick, frustrated move and drag a hand across my face. “Look. I need this done.”

“She doesn’t seem to want to divorce you.”

“Nobody wants to divorce me—my name opens doors.”

“Cut her credit cards.”

“And have her starve?” I growl, shaking my head.

“Ian, we’ve known each other for a long time. Talk to her. See if you can appeal to the heart inside.”

I exhale and lean forward. “Give her whatever she wants. The West End apartment. The Cabo house. Half my cash. But the company stays with me—give her anything else. And get me that damn divorce,” I growl and shove away from the table.

I climb into a cab and head back to the hotel. I need to finish my paperwork and deliver it to my New York office before my 5 p.m. flight back to LA.

And yet, while the driver wades through traffic, it’s not work I’m thinking about as I stare out the window. I see her in every woman walking down the sidewalk. Some have her hair; some have her legs. I lean closer to the window when I spot one that I’m sure is her. She’s nicely shaped like Sara, with the same long, elegant neck, her dark hair held back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress, and it hugs her body just right when she bends to pick up something she’s dropped. I drink her in.

The taxi halts in the middle of traffic, and I curve my fingers around the door handle, ready to leap out. The woman lifts her head and stands again. It’s not Sara.

Not her eyes. Not her face. Definitely not her lips.

Jesus, man, get over it already.

I exhale and drop my hand to my knee, drumming my fingers restlessly. I fucked her—a one-time thing. But it opened the gaping hole that makes me crave human touch, human connection. A woman’s scent, a woman’s voice… This girl may be the key to open me back up.

I consider it for a minute. But only a minute.

What for, Ford? There’s nothing good of you left.

I walk into the lobby and head straight toward the concierge desk. She’s not there.

“Sara?” I ask.

“She’s home. I’m covering for her because of the day she covered for me. Do you want me to call her, Mr.…”

I pull out a card. “Ask her to call me.”

She flashes a rather coy and flirtatious smile, which I ignore, and I ask her for an envelope and write a message on the back of the business card.



It’s Ian.

I’m taking care of personal things. Maybe soon I’ll have more to offer than what I did last night.



I drop the card into the envelope and seal it shut as the concierge tends to a family. By the time she’s done, I’ve had a full three minutes to rethink the whole thing. As she waves the family off, I grab the sealed envelope and jam it into the front pocket of my coat. I walk away, and behind me, the concierge calls out, “Sir, are you going to leave that with me?”

I lift my hand without turning.

Obviously not.

There’s no point in leaving her a one-way ticket to nowhere. Better to leave what happened where it is. A one-night stand, nothing more.





ROOMIE


Sara



I posted an ad looking for a roommate and pray that the right person applies, because the roommate-from-hell nightmare has been nonstop. My first roommate was a guy who was always lazing around in the apartment, a fucking slob I had to pick up after who was always late paying the rent. I kicked him out. The next was a young student who came to NYU and left after one semester; she didn’t feel like it was the right fit and wanted a more traditional college, with a campus. Once again I was left paying the rent on my own and desperate to find the right roommate.

“Third time’s the charm,” I assure myself.

I reread the ad I placed two weeks ago, make sure it’s still there, and slap my laptop shut. Then I continue looking for gigs in the paper. I’ve always seen myself on Broadway, but I guess the universe didn’t see me there. I broke my ankle the first week I was rehearsing for my first big break. They gave me a pat on the back, a thank-you, and sent me on my way, with my cast, a boot, and my soul and heart crushed. Still having to cover the rent, I applied as a concierge to a trendy four-star hotel downtown that caters mostly to businessmen—and thankfully got the job.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I want to do something more with my life. Something I’m passionate about and also happen to be good at. Sometimes it’s hard to marry both, and you end up with a career you’re good at and a hobby you’re passionate about. I’ll take anything, but the restlessness I feel whenever I think of my old dreams of performing for an audience won’t let me stop looking.