It seems the guy is not only on my mind, because he’s the first thing Mrs. Ford mentions when I walk into her apartment that evening. “My grandson hasn’t been in town for a while. He’s going through a very ugly divorce.”
“Oh.”
“It’s been going on for a while, but that little tramp he married just can’t let go.” She shakes her head. “That’s what he gets for marrying a woman more interested in his money than his happiness.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a film producer. Mostly documentaries. He travels for work a lot. I admit he doesn’t like being in the city anymore, and with good reason!”
“Mrs. Ford,” I say as she moves around the kitchen in a floral caftan and enough jewels to open her own store.
“Yes, dear?”
“I don’t know that I can continue walking Milly. Bryn is about to open her business, and as her PA, I’m going to be much busier. I also do some catalogue modeling on the side, and it’s time-consuming as well.”
“You’re modeling, Sara?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling self-conscious as she turns to scrutinize me, “but I told her to cut my face off the images.”
“Why on earth?” She sounds aghast.
“I don’t know. But I would rather be doing something that stimulates my mind a little more. Posing is boring and it makes me self-conscious.”
“You have nothing to be self-conscious about; you’re gorgeous, Sara—model gorgeous, with that ballerina body and those beautiful eyes. Tell me the real reason you can’t walk Milly.”
I pause for a moment, my brain near exploding with one word.
Ian.
Ian.
Fucking IAN.
Having fucked IAN.
Wanting IAN.
“I just don’t know that I can keep coming, that’s all.” I move around the counter to help her cut vegetables as we talk. I don’t pay much attention to what I’m doing, but I need to do something.
“Is it about my grandson?”
“Excuse me?”
“He asked me when you were coming over.”
“Huh?”
The door chime rings, and Mrs. Ford raises her heavily jeweled hand. “That must be him,” she says conspiratorially with a wink, and I stiffen on my feet when, a minute later, I hear a key being inserted into the lock.
“Ian, darling!” Mrs. Ford squeals like a girl, and I hear Ian’s voice reach and tickle my ears (among other parts).
“Gran. How’s my girl today?”
My mouth dries up as I set the knife down and turn to watch him fill the living room with his ever sexy presence.
If I thought I might get lucky and the guy would have gotten a face and body transplant today, I was mistaken. He’s still my Dirty Workaholic, the most sexual being I have ever known. His repressed energy seems to bubble under the fabric of his black slacks and white dress shirt. Just like it always does.
I’m trying to suppress my reaction to his presence, but my body parts aren’t in accord with my brain. Damn him.
Mrs. Ford envelops him in her embrace, and when Ian drapes his arms around her, his height and breadth make his grandmother look delicate and tiny. She’s cooing at him as Ian lifts his eyes, and his dark, curious gaze locks on me. My heart stutters when we make eye contact. I begin to perspire as I force my feet to move forward, get Milly, and get the hell out of here.
“I should get going,” I tell Mrs. Ford before Ian can say a word. “If you’ll excuse me. Come here, Milly.” I call her, grabbing the leash from the kitchen drawer and latching it onto her collar as the dog pads over.
Ian moves forward to take Milly’s leash from my fingers. “I’ve got it.” Close to my ear, his voice is deep and low and rumbling.
I straighten, his voice rolling down my skin like a harsh kiss. There’s something intimidating and intense about the way his eyes look into me. “I came here for you,” he whispers.
“I don’t see why.”
“I’m going to finish dinner!” Mrs. Ford calls from the kitchen. “Ian, don’t come on too strong; she’s not Cordelia.”
“Thanks, Gran. I think I’ve got this,” he answers with a smirk in his eyes as he leads Milly to the door.
“I don’t think this is the time or the appropriate place,” I warn the man as he opens the door.
I step out of the apartment and stupidly get tangled between Ian and Milly.
I gasp as Ian tries to untangle me. Our bodies bump in places and it only gets his scent all over me, and allows my body to remember the hardness of his.
Freed, I step away from him and maintain my personal space as we ride the elevator down. I’m praying that he doesn’t step into my bubble and make me lose my center of gravity again.
“Can I at least have the leash?” I ask him. If I sound annoyed, it’s because I am.
He hands it over, watching me with a slight smile on his lips.
I don’t know why he’s here tonight. Or why I’m feeling flutters in my stomach.
I want to pretend that this is normal. Me, walking one of my client’s dogs with her grandson. But it’s not normal, and neither is the way this guy looks at me.
I notice, as usual, his work attire.
Does the guy do anything else except work and fuck like a god?
“You came here from work?”
We step into the lobby and then out onto the busy streets. “I did. And you?”
I nod, glancing around at the busy cafés as we start walking, trying to distract myself from him. It’s past sunset and the shoppers that usually litter the SoHo streets are already flooding the restaurants for dinner. The streets are quieter at this hour. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Usually it would be good. But with Ian beside me, I need all the distractions I can get.
“Why don’t you stay with your grandmother when you’re in town?” I decide small talk can distract me just fine. I feel calmer now as we head toward Washington Square Park, both of us staring ahead and scanning our surroundings.
“She has her own life. I’ve got mine. I don’t want to intrude.” He scoffs. “Besides, I have a home here. I just don’t use it.”
I remember the West End apartment and steer off that topic. “Do you come to the city often?”
I’m just making small talk.
Or okay. Maybe I asked just for me.
“Once a month. Though I had a project to film in LA for the past few months that kept me away.” His eyes slit as he regards me with a pointed glance, as if he means for me to know his reasons for staying away.
I gulp and pretend I don’t notice the way his eyes fall to my lips for a hot moment.
“Your parents?” I press.
“Both passed away. Boating accident.”
I stop in my tracks, mouth hanging open and heart crushed. “I’m sorry,” I finally say. He accepts my words with a brief smile, and the way his eyes sadden tugs at my heart.
We fall silent for a while. I suppose I should have hugged him, but that would get him too far into my personal bubble. He’s already treading at the margins.
“I was obsessed with death as a teenager,” I offer.
“Why?”
“Because it scared me to think of losing someone I loved and of one day that person no longer… existing. I had a friend in school who died. She had frequent migraines and they discovered a brain tumor. We lost her so fast.”
“Oh.”
“It’s been going on for a while, but that little tramp he married just can’t let go.” She shakes her head. “That’s what he gets for marrying a woman more interested in his money than his happiness.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a film producer. Mostly documentaries. He travels for work a lot. I admit he doesn’t like being in the city anymore, and with good reason!”
“Mrs. Ford,” I say as she moves around the kitchen in a floral caftan and enough jewels to open her own store.
“Yes, dear?”
“I don’t know that I can continue walking Milly. Bryn is about to open her business, and as her PA, I’m going to be much busier. I also do some catalogue modeling on the side, and it’s time-consuming as well.”
“You’re modeling, Sara?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling self-conscious as she turns to scrutinize me, “but I told her to cut my face off the images.”
“Why on earth?” She sounds aghast.
“I don’t know. But I would rather be doing something that stimulates my mind a little more. Posing is boring and it makes me self-conscious.”
“You have nothing to be self-conscious about; you’re gorgeous, Sara—model gorgeous, with that ballerina body and those beautiful eyes. Tell me the real reason you can’t walk Milly.”
I pause for a moment, my brain near exploding with one word.
Ian.
Ian.
Fucking IAN.
Having fucked IAN.
Wanting IAN.
“I just don’t know that I can keep coming, that’s all.” I move around the counter to help her cut vegetables as we talk. I don’t pay much attention to what I’m doing, but I need to do something.
“Is it about my grandson?”
“Excuse me?”
“He asked me when you were coming over.”
“Huh?”
The door chime rings, and Mrs. Ford raises her heavily jeweled hand. “That must be him,” she says conspiratorially with a wink, and I stiffen on my feet when, a minute later, I hear a key being inserted into the lock.
“Ian, darling!” Mrs. Ford squeals like a girl, and I hear Ian’s voice reach and tickle my ears (among other parts).
“Gran. How’s my girl today?”
My mouth dries up as I set the knife down and turn to watch him fill the living room with his ever sexy presence.
If I thought I might get lucky and the guy would have gotten a face and body transplant today, I was mistaken. He’s still my Dirty Workaholic, the most sexual being I have ever known. His repressed energy seems to bubble under the fabric of his black slacks and white dress shirt. Just like it always does.
I’m trying to suppress my reaction to his presence, but my body parts aren’t in accord with my brain. Damn him.
Mrs. Ford envelops him in her embrace, and when Ian drapes his arms around her, his height and breadth make his grandmother look delicate and tiny. She’s cooing at him as Ian lifts his eyes, and his dark, curious gaze locks on me. My heart stutters when we make eye contact. I begin to perspire as I force my feet to move forward, get Milly, and get the hell out of here.
“I should get going,” I tell Mrs. Ford before Ian can say a word. “If you’ll excuse me. Come here, Milly.” I call her, grabbing the leash from the kitchen drawer and latching it onto her collar as the dog pads over.
Ian moves forward to take Milly’s leash from my fingers. “I’ve got it.” Close to my ear, his voice is deep and low and rumbling.
I straighten, his voice rolling down my skin like a harsh kiss. There’s something intimidating and intense about the way his eyes look into me. “I came here for you,” he whispers.
“I don’t see why.”
“I’m going to finish dinner!” Mrs. Ford calls from the kitchen. “Ian, don’t come on too strong; she’s not Cordelia.”
“Thanks, Gran. I think I’ve got this,” he answers with a smirk in his eyes as he leads Milly to the door.
“I don’t think this is the time or the appropriate place,” I warn the man as he opens the door.
I step out of the apartment and stupidly get tangled between Ian and Milly.
I gasp as Ian tries to untangle me. Our bodies bump in places and it only gets his scent all over me, and allows my body to remember the hardness of his.
Freed, I step away from him and maintain my personal space as we ride the elevator down. I’m praying that he doesn’t step into my bubble and make me lose my center of gravity again.
“Can I at least have the leash?” I ask him. If I sound annoyed, it’s because I am.
He hands it over, watching me with a slight smile on his lips.
I don’t know why he’s here tonight. Or why I’m feeling flutters in my stomach.
I want to pretend that this is normal. Me, walking one of my client’s dogs with her grandson. But it’s not normal, and neither is the way this guy looks at me.
I notice, as usual, his work attire.
Does the guy do anything else except work and fuck like a god?
“You came here from work?”
We step into the lobby and then out onto the busy streets. “I did. And you?”
I nod, glancing around at the busy cafés as we start walking, trying to distract myself from him. It’s past sunset and the shoppers that usually litter the SoHo streets are already flooding the restaurants for dinner. The streets are quieter at this hour. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Usually it would be good. But with Ian beside me, I need all the distractions I can get.
“Why don’t you stay with your grandmother when you’re in town?” I decide small talk can distract me just fine. I feel calmer now as we head toward Washington Square Park, both of us staring ahead and scanning our surroundings.
“She has her own life. I’ve got mine. I don’t want to intrude.” He scoffs. “Besides, I have a home here. I just don’t use it.”
I remember the West End apartment and steer off that topic. “Do you come to the city often?”
I’m just making small talk.
Or okay. Maybe I asked just for me.
“Once a month. Though I had a project to film in LA for the past few months that kept me away.” His eyes slit as he regards me with a pointed glance, as if he means for me to know his reasons for staying away.
I gulp and pretend I don’t notice the way his eyes fall to my lips for a hot moment.
“Your parents?” I press.
“Both passed away. Boating accident.”
I stop in my tracks, mouth hanging open and heart crushed. “I’m sorry,” I finally say. He accepts my words with a brief smile, and the way his eyes sadden tugs at my heart.
We fall silent for a while. I suppose I should have hugged him, but that would get him too far into my personal bubble. He’s already treading at the margins.
“I was obsessed with death as a teenager,” I offer.
“Why?”
“Because it scared me to think of losing someone I loved and of one day that person no longer… existing. I had a friend in school who died. She had frequent migraines and they discovered a brain tumor. We lost her so fast.”
