He’s silent.
“I’d have loved for you to meet my parents.” He breaks the silence with that statement. And he almost seems as surprised by it as I am.
“I would have liked to have met them too.” I smile genuinely. Why is he giving me flutters again? This is supposed to be just small talk. Now we’re making imaginary introductions to parents.
“My mother would have liked you,” he says.
“I would have no doubt liked her like I do Mrs. Ford. Were they similar? She and Mrs. Ford?”
“They were alike. Like mother, like daughter-in-law, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry you lost them, Ian.”
“Me too,” he says, pausing to force me to look into his eyes. “And now I want to know about you.”
“There’s not a lot to know.” I hike up one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’m an only child. My parents are in the middle of a divorce. You can say that’s been hard to assimilate.”
He seems surprised. Something about my parents’ situation being similar to his own seems to register, and his voice drops a decibel. “I’m sorry.”
“I guess you’d know, since you’re in the middle of one, too.” I eye him as we turn at the corner. I want to ask what happened between him and his wife, but at the same time, I’m not sure I want to know. “I guess life surprises us and not everything we plan ends up going as planned. I came to Manhattan to study at NYU. All I dreamed of was Broadway. But on my first audition, I broke my ankle, and voilà, I haven’t seen the stars smile down on me again since I…”
He looks down at me with an intense expression on his face. I feel my phone buzz, and it’s a message from Bryn’s friend Becka.
Just landed. Will be there shortly. Is Bryn ok?
Yes. Meet you at the apartment in a bit.
I turn to him. “My roomie just went through a sad breakup. Her best friend from Texas is in town to cheer her up.” I lick my lips, realizing it’s late. “We’d better head back. I should get home. Tomorrow, I’m promoting the launch of House of Sass on Prince Street and I need my beauty sleep.”
We don’t talk on our way back to Mrs. Ford’s apartment. But we seem to be walking closer to each other, and it’s odd that I sort of feel safe when he’s invading my personal bubble.
Why is that?
Upstairs, I kiss the top of Milly’s head and croon down at her for being a good girl. I straighten and realize Ian was watching me this whole time. We say goodbye. Mrs. Ford insists I stay for dinner, but I have to decline.
“About our conversation, Mrs. Ford…” I pause at the door. “I’ll find someone to fill in as my replacement.”
Before she can talk me out of it, I walk out of the building and toward the train station with Ian on the brain and regret in my heart. And the more excited I feel about having just seen him, the more worried and scared I get that he’ll break my heart if I let him get any closer.
Sara
We have a girls’ night where we—Bryn, Becka, and I—forbid each other to talk about men. Lucky for her, Becka is the only one of us who’s not a little heartbroken, and it’s only because she’s so focused on her fictional characters’ heartbreak instead.
We hit it off instantly when we met last night. She’s from Austin and has been best friends with Bryn for forever. She’s a frustrated writer, slash poet, slash romantic, and is hoping to finish her manuscript while in New York. She sleeps the night on the couch, then wakes early to cook us her signature Belgian waffles.
I already hope she stays with us for a while.
Now, while Bryn coordinates the deliveries of her clothing designs to the warehouse to get ready for her House of Sass launch, Becka and I are trying to cheer her up by night, and selling samples at fifty percent discount on Prince Street by day.
Everyone who’s stopped by our stand has loved Bryn’s new “confession” T-shirts. Some say “Chocolate Addict” and others have a cute little slogan and logo. On the front one reads, “I Kissed a Frog” and on the back it reads, “Or twenty.”
“Miss Davies?”
I’m startled to spot a man standing behind the last girl we rang up. He’s a little younger than me, and he seems to know who I am, but I have no idea who he is.
“My boss sent this.”
He extends a piece of paper, but this is New York, after all, and you just don’t trust people that easily. “I’m sorry; I think you may—”
“Sara Davies?” He shakes his head. “He was pretty intent on making sure I didn’t make a mistake.” He hands me back the piece of paper, which I now realize has a card inside, along with a check. I quickly read the name on the card: Ian Ford.
My stomach dips unexpectedly. What is he doing?
“I’m sorry but…”
“For the whole set. We’re buying everything you have left in stock.”
“But why?”
“He wanted you to free your afternoon and meet him tonight on Broadway. He’s got tickets for Hairspray.”
“Oh my gosh, really? But that show is sold out.”
He gathers all the remaining T-shirts and says, “He’s good for the check.”
I seem to have lost all power of speech.
Becka is equally speechless as we close shop.
“You’ve got to go,” she says.
“I’m not sure where this will lead. What exactly am I getting into?” I glance at the ticket as we head to the train station.
“It’s just a date—and if you want more, then it’ll be more.”
“But didn’t I tell you last night this guy is married?”
“He’s as good as divorced already. And he’s interested.”
“I’m confused. I never wanted to get it on with a divorced guy. I’m not going to go.” I shake my head, but Becka grabs my hand and squeezes.
“Sara. Do you want to wonder your whole life? Just go. Maybe getting to know him more will help you get over him. Or it’ll make it clearer that you really want this guy and are willing to wait for him.”
“Okay. You’re right.” I nod my head. “You need to help me pick my outfit.”
“Count on it.”
“Also, don’t tell Bryn. She’s got enough on her plate, and I don’t want her to worry about me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
One hour later, I walk into the theater wearing a killer red dress and look down at my ticket, biting my lip as the usher points out my seat. I scan the line of seats down the front, and I spot the back of his head. He seems to sense my presence and slowly stands, his onyx gaze trained on me, and my knees do a little knocking dance. Damn this man. He’s going to be the end of me.
Exhaling, I start heading down the steps as he comes to meet me halfway, the smile on his face a shade above gorgeous.
“Hey, stranger,” I say.
“Glad you came.” His eyes shine and I’m glad I came, too, if only because I’ve never met a guy I’ve responded to the way I do him. I said that when I found sparks I would light the match, and here I am. Stoking that same fire that began months ago in that ride back from the airport.
Ian stretches out his legs before us after we sit and I feel his knee touch mine.
I gulp and tense, wanting more.
We start to watch the show, and it’s torture to be caught between my two loves, both of which I can’t have. Dancing… and my Suit. It becomes more and more painful as the show progresses and the dancers twirl on the stage in ways that make my legs itch so that I can barely watch without wanting to move to the music. I feel him eyeing my profile and I don’t know what to do, what to say, why I’m here, or why I’m doing this to myself.
My whole body aches. I want to dance so much my arms feel heavy from the urge to move. I want to dance up on that stage. Hell, anywhere.
“They’re looking for dancers,” he tells me.
My eyes widen.
“I wanted you to see it first, in case you wanted to audition.”
He remembered?
I
lean over to his ear. “I could suck you off ten times right here,” I whisper by way of gratitude.
He smiles then, his gaze wolfish.
“Let’s go. It may not have been such a good idea to bring you here,” he says, motioning to my moving legs.
I stand and as he leads me out, he asks, in my ear, “Where to?”
“Anywhere I can move,” I beg.
Ian summons an Uber to drive us to the Upper East Side. I have no idea where we’re going. I don’t care; somehow I trust him to take me somewhere I will like.
Half an hour later, we hop out in front of a burnt-red brownstone. I’m surprised to see Ian has the keys. He opens the gate for me and leads me up the steps to the front door.
“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.
It cannot be that different for Ian.
Exhaling in almost relief, I realize now that the situation is cleaner than I imagined it could be. Ian wasn’t the instigator of the divorce; he was the victim here. I want to walk up to him and hug him, but a part of me still holds back because I don’t know that I want to get involved with a guy going through something like this. Divorces are messy procedures, and you can’t be sure of how things are going to go until it’s all signed and really over.
“Thank you for telling me.” I hesitate before I gather the courage to take a few steps closer to him. “I didn’t want you to leave town without asking you about it.”
“Who said I’m leaving town?”
I stare, tongue-tied, remembering Robert was the one who told me he was leaving today. I want to stick my fist into my mouth to shut myself up. “I… well… I heard it from a friend at the Four Seasons.” A nervous laugh leaves me.
“Have you been checking up on me, Sara?” The shock on Ian’s face turns to amusement. He’s taunting me. The devil.
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m not leaving anytime soon, Sara.” Shaking his head, he studies me with his gleaming gaze for an extra few beats. “I’ll be staying in my new place.”
Confused, I watch as Ian watches me back.
God, I’m slow.
My mouth hangs open.
This is his new place?
“Do you like that I’m staying, Sara?”
The sexual tension intensifies as we eye each other in the empty room.
My body is on high alert from his nearness.
His eyes roam over me, a little shuttered, a lot dark.
I don’t want to get myself into trouble or in a position where the first guy I actually react to breaks my heart. But God. Ian Ford. Dirty Workaholic. Hot as the hottest man on the planet. The interest in his eyes is turning my knees to mush.
I evade for a moment. “So you’ll be sta
ying here?” I glance around the townhome.
“As of today. I just closed.”
“Well, if you had told me, I would have brought wine. Show me around,” I demand, trying to shake the lust out of my veins.
I feel happy, truly happy for him to be getting a new start. He deserves it.
“I’ve got the wine covered.” He pulls out a bottle from the fridge, and I’m ecstatic to see he even bought two crystal wineglasses.
Did he plan to bring me here all along?
I watch him pour the wine, and once we’ve both got ours, I raise my glass.
“To your new place, Ian. May you find happiness here.”
“And to your future dancing gigs.”
I chuckle softly and take a sip, aware of Ian watching me over the rim of his glass. “You’ve got real talent, Sara. I was certain I was watching something holy as you danced for me.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I’m not pulling anything.” He tugs on my hair gently, teasingly, and I feel a little giddy again. “You still want that tour?”
“Of course. I love looking at homes.”
He leads me around the kitchen and through the dining room. I have two whole glasses of wine nearly back to back while we tour the first floor, using the liquid to quell my sudden hunger. We haven’t had dinner, and I’m usually fed and in bed by this hour.
Then Ian takes me upstairs, and I’m on my third glass and on an empty stomach. There’s a guest bedroom with a fireplace and a TV room with lots of empty bookcases. Finally, we reach the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He pushes the door open, and I peer inside.
There is dark wood throughout, a stone fireplace, huge windows, and…
“You have a bed.”
“A mattress. On the floor.” He chuckles and sips from his wine as I survey it.
“You really haven’t gone out with anyone in a while, have you? How long were you married?”
“Enough that I’m rusty.” He winks, but I’m not sure that he’s rusty. He’s naturally attractive. Hell, this guy can attract women by standing still, by just being him. Sighing as I admire his new bedroom, I lean back against his chest, and he strokes a hand up my arm.