Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
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.
“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.