Page 43 of You Rock My World
JOSIE
It’s too early. Too cold even for Los Angeles. And I should still be in bed.
Instead, I’m here, crossing the private jets’ hangar at the airport, watching as Dorian’s crew makes the last checks before his flight. His plane is waiting, sleek and ready, the engines humming low in the distance.
I hold the folder in my hands close to my chest as I move along. Maybe coming here was a stupid idea and I should have left things as they were last night. Skip the goodbyes, let our phone call be enough without turning our fight into something bigger.
But knowing he’d leave with nothing but the memory of me shouting nonsense at him made my stomach churn. I couldn’t let that be how we ended things before he left.
So I’m here.
The door to the private lounge opens, and Dorian steps out. I expected him to be here, but seeing him still makes my heart clench as if an invisible hand is squeezing it.
He is dressed in a fitted black hoodie and dark jeans, his travel bag slung over his shoulder, hair messy from lack of sleep. His steps slow when he sees me, his brows drawing together in something between surprise and worry.
“Josie? What are you doing here?”
We’re not alone. His tour manager, a couple of security guys, and a flight attendant stand a few feet away. I keep my face neutral and hold up the folder.
“I have some important documents for you to sign before you take off. Can you spare five minutes?”
Dorian’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking to the fake papers, then back to me. “Yeah. Come on.” He gestures toward the private meeting room at the rear of the lounge, and I follow him inside.
The moment the door clicks shut, I drop the folder on the table. “Okay, so there’s nothing to sign.”
He flashes me a lopsided smirk. “No kidding.”
I step forward and hug him, pressing my face against his chest. Dorian doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me in, holding me close like he needs this as much as I do.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against the soft fabric of his hoodie. “I… I didn’t want our last in-person conversation to be a fight.”
His lips brush against my hair. “Me neither. You don’t know how many times I thought about driving to your house last night.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Anyone could’ve seen me and it was late.”
I squeeze him harder.
We breathe each other in, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against my back, my hands fisting his hoodie, memorizing the way he feels.
Too soon, a knock comes. One of his security guys letting him know it’s time.
Dorian shifts to look at me. “You’re sure you’ll be okay while I’m gone? That the long distance is not an issue?”
I nod. “Doesn’t matter what time zone you’re in. You’re always in my thoughts.”
His throat bobs. “Same.”
His thumb skims over my hip, not pulling me closer, not letting go, just holding, as if this moment could stretch forever. Then, he dips his head and presses a slow, lingering kiss on my forehead.
And then he’s gone.
* * *
In the following weeks, I don’t fall into the same trap of putting everything on hold while I wait for him to come home. Every spare minute I have, I put it to use, making sure I have something to show for it.
With Dorian away, my plate at work is only half-full.
I still have to monitor and manage his press coverage.
It’s enough to keep me busy, but not enough to fill all the gaps.
Nadine still doesn’t let me touch my old clients, which leaves me stuck in limbo.
So, I attend networking events, shake hands, make conversation, and plant seeds.
But it’s hard when I can’t close anyone new.
I don’t want to sign them while still under my non-compete clause.
But with no new firm to bring new clients to, all the professional shmoozing adds up only to a pile of maybes.
A lot of possibilities with nothing concrete.
The headhunter I’ve gotten in touch with only has positions open in different cities. But I don’t want to move. My family is here. Dorian is here.
He doesn’t bring it up again in our calls, the thing he said before he left—about publishing my children’s book.
But it stays with me, lodging itself in the back of my mind until, one night, I finally do something about it.
I research literary agents, read submission guidelines, and send query letters.
It’s a small step forward. But better than nothing.
Two weeks later, Dorian returns home for Thanksgiving. We sneak him into my mom’s house, and he spends the holiday with my family. It feels like he’s always been one of us.
In early December, an agent I contacted replies, offering me representation.
I’m giddy with excitement, at least until we jump on a call and talk numbers.
She lowers my expectations on what I could realistically earn on a single book in my first years—definitely not enough to replace my current salary, but we click, and I sign with her.
Dorian is so supportive when I tell him.
He treats the news like I’ve landed a seven-figure deal with a movie option already lined up, not a cautious first step and a sobering call about numbers.
His belief in my success is loud, immediate, and entirely unshakable.
He encourages me to work on the next story, and it’s all I do for the next ten days, until, finally, Dorian comes home for good.