“Carina moved in with Ian,” Alex announced.
Erik’s eyes shot to Hanna for a brief moment before moving to Ian and giving a genuine smile. “Good for you, Ian. I don’t know how you convinced her to do it or if she’s locked in a tower, but I’m happy for you.” He cupped his hand over his mouth and muttered to me, “Blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”
Ian flipped him off but laughed.
“Hey, Carina,” Erik started. “I’d been meaning to ask you if you’re going to the wedding?”
“What wedding?” Ian asked.
“Jake’s—the other half of her company,” Erik answered. “I’ve gotten to know him through his donations to my charity.”
Ian’s curious gaze flicked to mine at the news. I’d kind of forgotten, slash didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“Jake, your ex?” Ian asked.
“Yup.”
“Oh, you’re going,” he said like I’d thrown down the gauntlet.
I parted my lips to argue, to make an excuse, but he held up a hand. “Don’t argue, Carina Russo. You’re going to dress up and be the hottest woman. You’ll eat cake, dance, and be the happiest person there.”
My shoulders sagged, not wanting to fight him because I kind of liked showing up to my ex-fiancé’s wedding and looking happier than ever before. I loved Jake, and I loved Jackson, but I also had a petty side that laughed with glee at the idea. “Fine.”
Ian’s fists went up, and he hissed, “Yesssss.”
“Are you going to do this every time you get your way?”
“Probably.”
“Just go with it,” Erik suggested.
Everyone got up to go. Alex offered to go shopping to look for a dress for the wedding, and Hanna gave a forced smile before making excuses about a phone call. We were just about to go grab Audrey when Erik stopped Ian.
“Ian, before you go, I talked to Kyle in London just a bit ago, and he let me know they need you there for the final viewing of the building. I thought Alex and I could make a trip of it, but they need you.”
“Shit.” He looked to me with regret, and I gave him a reassuring smile.
“It’s okay. We knew you’d have to go to London at some point.”
“I know,” he said, dragging his hand through his hair. “I just didn’t want to leave so soon.”
“When do you leave? For how long?”
He grimaced, and I knew it would be bad news before he even said it. “Tomorrow. For a week, maybe two.”
Then it was me standing there, a weight on my chest, muttering, “Oh.”
He gave me a regretful smile, but there was nothing to do but push on.
“Okay. I’ll grab the pots and pans from the apartment, and you can start packing.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
By the time I made it home, it was already late, but I wanted to make dinner. Cooking would help take my mind off the fact that Ian was leaving tomorrow.
Turning up the music, I swayed my hips and stirred the sauce. I brought the wooden spoon to my lips and tasted the tangy, sweet tomato sauce, licking it clean before using it as a microphone belting out the lyrics to That’s Exactly How I Feel by Lizzo.
I stopped mid-sentence when I heard a deeper voice also singing behind me. Turning slowly, I found Ian strutting out from the hallway to the beat with Audrey in his arms as he sang.
He set Audrey in her swing before strutting toward the kitchen.
“Don’t stop now. I was hoping for a duet.”
“Oh, my god,” I laughed.
I wasn’t sure I could sing because my jaw hung open, probably with drool leaking out. Ian only wore a pair of basketball shorts. His muscles flexing with each hip thrust and roll. His biceps bulged when he rested one hand behind his head, and the other pointed my way as he humped the air.
I wouldn’t have been able to stop my eyes from traveling to the way his thick cock bounced against his shorts even if I’d taped them shut. He swiveled his hips, belting out the lyrics entrancing me with each move.
“Stop watching my dick bounce and dance with me.”
“Ian,” I screeched.
“At least jump around so I can watch your boobs bounce.”
I wanted to feel affronted at his suggestion, but happiness bubbled up until it came out as a laugh and something in me urged me to give in.
Maybe it was the way he issued it with a raised eyebrow. Maybe because I wanted to have his eyes track over my body like mine were doing to his.
Once he was finally in the kitchen, he stole my wooden-spoon-microphone and screeched more lyrics.
“You’re horrible.”
“Like you can do better?” he challenged.
I narrowed my eyes and tugged back my microphone, singing off-key and loud. I swayed my hips, twerking my butt to the beat. His eyes heated and tracked my moves, and I continued to steal glances at his bouncing tripod.