The Stopover (The Miles High Club Book 1)

“Answer it, answer it,” Aaron cries.

“What do I do?” I flap my arms around in a panic.

“Holy fuck. Answer it,” Molly demands as she picks it up.

“Don’t answer it,” I stammer as I try to grab it from her hands. She holds it in the air and waves it around.

“Answer it, woman,” she demands.

I snatch it from her and stare at it while it buzzes. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Aaron snatches the phone from me and hits answer. “Hello,” he says in a fake girl’s voice, and then he passes it over to me.

“What the fuck?” I mouth.

“Hello, Emily,” Jameson’s velvety voice purrs.

My eyes widen as I look at my friends’ awestruck faces. Aaron crosses himself as if he’s in church and makes a praying gesture.

“Hello.”

“Where are you?” he asks.

“In a bar.” I glance around as I hold my hand over my other ear to try to hear him better. Shit, I’m not telling him where I am; I look like crap. I hold my breath as I listen.

“I want to see you.”

I bite my bottom lip, and Molly hits me on the arm to snap me out of my nervous freeze. “I told you I have a boyfriend,” I blurt out. “I can’t see you.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Aaron mouths to Molly as he scrunches his hands in his hair.

“And I told you to get rid of him.”

“Who do you think you are?” I stammer.

Molly and Aaron listen intently.

“Go outside. I can’t hear you,” he barks.

I stand and walk through the bar and outside onto the curb, and it falls silent.

“That’s better,” he says.

I glance up the street at the cabs all in a row. “What do you want, Jameson?”

“You know what I want.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“And I told you what to do.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is. Give me his number, and I’ll save you the job.”

I smirk at the audacity of this man. “You know, your arrogance is a turnoff.”

That’s a blatant lie—not even close.

“And you’re a turn-on. I’ve been hard all day. Get over here, and put me out of my misery.”

I hear my heartbeat in my ears. Is this really happening?

A drunk couple totter past me, and I have to move so they don’t run into me. “Sorry,” they call.

“I’m flying out to California in the morning,” I blurt out.

“To see him?”

“Yes.”

“He stayed behind?”

I scrunch my face up tight. Damn it. Why did I say that? “Yes.”

“When you see him, I want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn’t get to touch you again.”

I frown. “Why would I ask him that?” I whisper.

“Because there’s another man who does.” The phone clicks as he hangs up.

I frown as I stare at the phone in my hand as I feel tingles all the way to my toes.

Holy fucking shit.

I put my hand over my mouth; I can’t believe this.

I stumble back into the bar to find my two friends bouncing in their chairs as they wait for my return. “What happened?” they all but scream.

I slump and put my hands in my hair. “He wanted me to go over to his place and put him out of his misery.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Aaron cries. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Are you going?” Molly stammers. “Please tell me you’re going.”

I shake my head. “No.” I think for a moment. “He told me to ask my boyfriend if he felt like he would die if he didn’t get to touch me again.”

They frown as they listen.

“Because there is another man who does.”

“What?” Molly screeches. “Oh holy hell, we need tequila.” She gets up and disappears to the bar.

“He asked you to his place?” Aaron squeaks.

I nod.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“Park Avenue, overlooking Central Park.”

“How do you know that?”

“Google. He used to live in the One57 Billionaire Building, but he moved out of there and into a building on Park Avenue. His apartment is worth something like fifty million.”

“Fifty million,” I gasp. “Are you serious? How could anything be worth fifty million dollars? That’s just ridiculous.”

He shrugs. “Beats me. Must have gold toilets or something.”

I giggle as I get a vision of someone sitting on a gold toilet.

Molly sits back in her seat and hands me a shot of tequila. “Drink this, and then go and fuck him stupid.”

“I’m not going,” I snap.

“Well, what’s the plan of attack?” she asks. “Are you playing hard to get?”

“No attack. I’m going home to see Robbie tomorrow.” I exhale heavily. “I need to sort out our relationship, and hopefully he will come back with me.”

Aaron rolls his eyes in disappointment. “Can’t you at least be as excited about Jameson Miles as we are?”

“No. I’m not. And remember, not a word to anyone.” I sip my drink. “I know exactly what will happen with Jameson Miles. I’ll sleep with him once, and then he will move on to his next victim, and I’ll be conveniently fired.” I shake my head in disgust. “I’ve worked too damn hard to get this job, and this is the man who didn’t even want my number the last time we slept together.”

Aaron turns up his nose. “God, why are you so sensible?”

“I know, it totally sucks.” I sigh.

Molly’s phone rings. “Please let it be Jameson Miles looking for a backup plan,” she huffs with an eye roll. “Hello.”

She frowns as she listens. “Oh hello, Margaret. Yes, I remember who you are. You’re Chanel’s mother.”

She smiles as she listens, and then her face falls. “What?” Her eyes widen. “Are you serious?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Yes.” It sounds like she’s unable to get a word in. “I can understand why you’re upset.”

She narrows her eyes and shakes her head at us. “I’m so sorry.”

Aaron and I frown at each other. “What’s happened?” I mouth.

“How explicit are we talking?” she asks. Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She listens. “No, please, don’t go to the principal. I appreciate you calling me first.”

She closes her eyes as she listens. “Once again, my sincere apologies. Thank you. I’ll handle it, yes. Goodbye.”

“What?” I ask.

She puts her head in her hands. “Oh my God. That was Chanel’s mother, the girl my son is crushing on. She went through Chanel’s phone and found provocative messages between them.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling as I listen. “That’s pretty normal in this day and age, isn’t it?” I try to make her feel better. “I think they all do it.”

“How old is this girl?” Aaron asks.

“Fifteen,” Molly cries.

I giggle as I listen. God, I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a teenage son. She dials her ex-husband’s number. “Hello,” she snaps. “Go into your son’s bedroom, and grab his phone, and throw the damn thing in the toilet. He is grounded for life.”

She listens.

Aaron and I begin to giggle uncontrollably.

“Michael,” she says as she inhales deeply to try to calm down. “I know he’s been seeing her, and I know she probably likes it. He’s fifteen years old,” she whispers angrily. “Take his phone, or be prepared for me to come over and smash it.” She hangs up in a rush and puts her head down on the table and pretends to bang it continually.

Aaron and I burst out laughing, and I put my hand on her back. “Do you want some more tequila, Moll?” I ask sweetly.

“Yes . . . I do. Make it a double,” she snaps angrily.

I stand at the bar as I look over at the table, and Aaron has his hand over his mouth in uncontrollable giggles. I drop my head to hide my goofy smile.

This is hilarious . . . because it’s not happening to me.

“Hey.” I smile as Robbie opens his front door.

“Hey, you.” He smiles as he wraps me in his arms. “This is a surprise.”

“I know. I was missing you, so I flew home this morning for the night.”

“Come in.” He drags me into his converted garage.

I couldn’t sleep last night. I was worried about my feelings, and I can’t stop thinking about stupid Jameson Miles. I got up and went straight to the airport and caught the flight out. I look around Robbie’s tiny studio apartment and at the empty pizza boxes and dirty glasses lying around. “What have you been doing?” I ask.

“Nothing much.” He smiles; he lies on the bed and taps it beside him. I lie down, and he slides his hand up my top as he looks down at me.

“Did you go to any job interviews this week?” I ask.

“Nah, nothing suited me.”

I frown. “Any job is a good job . . . isn’t it?” I ask hopefully.

“I’m waiting for the right one.” He kisses me softly.

I stare up at him as I feel his erection grow up against my leg. “Robbie, come back to New York with me. There are so many jobs there, and it would be a fresh start for you. We could discover the city together.”

He snatches his hand away from my breast and pulls away from me. “Don’t start your fucking shit. I told you I’m not moving to New York.”

I sit up in a rush. “What’s stopping you? You have no job here. What’s holding you back? Explain it to me.”

“I like living here. I don’t pay rent, and my mother cooks all my food. I have a good deal here. Why would I leave?”

“You’re twenty-five, Robbie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps.

“Don’t you want to support yourself and experience something different?”

“No. I like it here.”

“You need to grow up,” I snap, and we both stand up.

“And you need to come back to fucking earth. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“I want to live in New York.” I take his hand as I try to get through to him. “You should see New York, Robbie. You would love it there. It has this vibe like I’ve never felt anywhere else.”

“New York is your dream, Emily, not mine. I’m never moving there.”

Oh hell. We are worlds apart. “How are we supposed to be together from different sides of the country?” I ask softly.

He shrugs. “You should have thought of that before you applied for this stupid job.”

“It’s not a stupid job.” I plead, “Don’t you want to support me in my dream? Are you going to come and visit me at all?”

“I told you—I don’t like cities.”

“So what you’re saying is, if I don’t fly back to California, I won’t see you at all.”

He shrugs and sits down and picks up his PlayStation remote.

“Are you serious?” I snap as I begin to see red. “I flew all the way home to discuss our future, and you’re going to play fucking Fortnite.”

He rolls his eyes and starts the game. “Quit your nagging.”

“Quit my nagging,” I snap. “I don’t want to live in your fucking parents’ garage, Robbie.”

“Don’t, then.”

“What is wrong with you?” I cry in outrage. “Why do you want to waste away here? You’re twenty-five, Robbie. You need to grow up.”

He rolls his eyes. “If you flew all the way back here to be a bitch, you needn’t have bothered.”

Steam shoots from my ears. “If I walk out that door, Robbie, we are over,” I say.

His eyes rise to meet mine.

“I mean it,” I whisper. “I want you in my life, but I won’t sacrifice my happiness because you are too fucking lazy to get off your ass and make a future for yourself.”

He clenches his jaw and goes back to his game. He begins to play.

I watch him through tears as I hear my angry heartbeat in my ears. “Robbie, please,” I whisper. “Come with me.”

He keeps his eyes on the screen as he begins to shoot people in his game. “Close the door on your way out.” He puts his headphones on to block me out.

I get a lump in my throat as I finally see our relationship for what it really is.

A sham.

I take a long look around his room as he plays his game, and I know that this is it.

The defining moment where I decide what I’m worth. What I want from life.

I can’t save him . . . if he doesn’t want to be saved.

What I want is someone who wants to grow with me, and I don’t even know what growth I want. But I can’t be stagnant here in his parents’ garage any longer.

I don’t even know who he is anymore . . . but this isn’t me.

The woman I want to be lives in New York and has the job of her dreams.

Sadness overwhelms me. I know what I have to do.

I walk over to him and take his headphones off. “I’m going.”

He stares at me.

“You’re better than this,” I whisper.

He clenches his jaw.

“Robbie,” I whisper. “You’re much more than just a football star. You need to believe that.”

His eyes search mine.

“Go and get some help.” I look around his room. “It’s going to be too late for us, but I want it for you.”

He drops his head and stares at the floor. I take his hand in mine. “Come with me,” I whisper. “Please, Robbie, pull out of this . . . if not for me, for yourself.”

“I can’t, Em.”

My eyes fill with tears, and I bend and kiss him softly. I rub my fingers through his stubble and stare into his eyes. “Go and find whatever it is that makes you happy,” I whisper.

“You too,” he breathes sadly. I realize he doesn’t even want to fight it; he knows this is for the best. I smile at the bittersweet moment, and I kiss him softly one last time, with tears rolling down my cheeks.

I get into my mother’s car and stare at his house for an extended time.

That was much easier and much harder than I imagined.

I slowly start the car and pull out onto the road. I wipe my tears with my forearm as I feel a chapter of my life close.

I drive down the road and out of Robbie McIntyre’s life. “Goodbye, Robbie,” I whisper out loud. “When it was good, it was great.”

Monday morning

“And what do you think would happen if you told the police of your suspicions?” I ask.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” the frail old woman replies. She has to be at least ninety. Her white hair is in perfect finger waves, and her dress is a pretty shade of mauve. “They’re useless.”

I dutifully scribble down her reply on my notepad. I’m out in the field today, following up my own lead. There has been a string of satanic graffiti on the fronts of houses lately, and this particular woman’s house has been done three times. Fed up with the lack of support from the police department, she contacted Miles Media, and I was the lucky one who picked up the phone.

“So . . . tell me when this all began,” I ask.

“Back in November.” She pauses as she tries to remember. “November sixteenth was the first time. A huge mural of the devil himself.”

“Right.” I look up from my notes. “What did it look like?”

“Evil.” She gets a faraway look in her eye. “Pure evil, so lifelike, with huge fangs and blood dripping everywhere.”

“It must have been terrifying for you.”

“It was. That was the night when a jewelry store got robbed around the corner, so I remember it well.”

“Oh.” I frown. She didn’t mention this before. “Do you think it’s related?”

She stares at me blankly.

“The graffiti and the robbery, I mean,” I clarify.

“Don’t know.” She pauses for a moment and then contorts her face as if in pain. “I’ve never thought of that before, but it’s all making sense now. The police are in on this conspiracy.” She begins to pace. “Yes, yes, that’s it.” She taps her hand on the top of her head as she walks back and forth.

Hmm. There’s something off here. Is this woman of sound mind? “What did you do when you found the graffiti on your house?”

“I called the police, and they told me that they don’t have time to come out for graffiti but to take a picture of it and email it to them.”

“And you did that?”

“Yes.”

“What happened then?”

“My son got my house acid washed and removed it, but three nights later it happened again. But this time it was an image of someone getting murdered. A woman had been stabbed. The graffiti was so intricate that it looked like a painting.”

“Oh.” I continue to take notes. “What did you do this time?”

“I went down to the police station and demanded someone come and look at my house. My neighbor had his house vandalized too.”

“Okay.” I scribble down her story. “What’s your neighbor’s name?”

“Robert Day Daniels.”

I glance up from my notes, surprised by his name. “His name is Robert Day Daniels?”

“Or is it Daniel Day Roberts?” Her voice trails off as she thinks. “Hmm.”

I stare at her as I wait for her to decide which it is.

“I forgot his name.” She scrubs her hands in her hair as if about to launch into a panic.

“That’s okay. I’ll just write Robert Day Daniels for the moment, and then we’ll come back to it a little later.”

“Yes, okay.” She smiles, pleased that I’m not pushing her for an exact name.

“What was drawn on his house?” I ask.

“One of those horrible devil stars.”

“I see. Tell me, what did the police do this time?”

“Nothing. They didn’t even come out here.”

“They’re very busy,” I reassure her as I write. “Tell me about the last time it happened.”

“The entire house was painted red.”

I glance up in surprise. “The entire house was red?”

“The whole street.”

Uneasiness sweeps over me. “That is weird.” I frown.

She leans in close so that only I can hear her. “Do you think it’s the devil?” she whispers.

“What?” I smile. “No, it’s probably just kids acting up,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No, only Miles Media. I want you to publish this story so that the police will actually pay some attention. I’m getting scared that it’s something more sinister.”

I take her hand in mine. “Yes, I think we have enough to go forward with the story.”

“Oh, thank you, dear.” She holds my hand tightly.

“Is there anything else you can think of that may be relevant?” I ask.

“Just that I’m living in fear every night that the devil is coming back. My neighbors said to go and speak to them too.”

“Okay, great.” I hand her my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“Yes, I will.” She clutches the card.

I go down the street and interview seven more people, and the stories all correlate. I definitely have enough evidence to go forward. I go back to the office and type the story up and hand it in to Hayden. It feels good breaking news.

I sit at my desk and stare at my computer screen. It’s four o’clock on Monday, and I’m in a funk. Since I got back to New York late last night, I’ve had a bad case of the guilts. Even though I knew that Robbie and I were reaching our expiration date, I kind of feel like I sped it up and didn’t let it run its course. But then, on the other hand, we’d been stagnant for months, and if I took this job knowing he wasn’t coming with me . . . I think I subconsciously knew we were close to the end.

“The god is here,” Aaron whispers.

I glance up. “Who?”

“Tristan Miles,” he whispers.

I spy over the screening above my desk as he talks to the manager of the floor, Rebecca.

He’s wearing a pin-striped navy suit, his brown wavy hair is in just-fucked perfection, and he has this dreamy smile on his face as he talks. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen and huge dimples.

“She’s giggling like a schoolgirl.” Aaron frowns.

“He’s never on this level,” Molly says.

“What do you reckon he’s doing here?” Aaron whispers as his eyes stay glued to the fine specimen.

“His job,” I reply flatly. “He does work here, you know.”

The more I think about it, the more I know I’ve romanticized this whole Jameson Miles thing. He doesn’t like me—he’s just horny, and there’s a big difference. He’s probably had sex with five women since Friday night when I spoke to him. I haven’t heard from him since, and I don’t want to either.

I didn’t leave Robbie because Jameson told me to; I left Robbie because he’d stopped putting in any effort. If Jameson knows we broke up, he’s going to assume it’s because I want to sleep with him . . . and I don’t.

I really don’t. Stupid men.

I’m not telling my coworkers that we broke up. I don’t want to make a fanfare of it. I want to take my time to get my head around it.

Tristan Miles says something, and Rebecca laughs. Then he disappears into the elevator, and we all get back to work.

I struggle with my umbrella as I trudge down the pavement in the rain. New York isn’t as dreamy in the wet. I grab the Gazette while I’m waiting for the lights to change and stuff it in my bag. I’ll read this while I wait for my coffee. My phone rings.

“Hello, Emily Foster speaking,” I answer as I power walk among the crowd.

“Hello, Emily,” a familiar voice says.

I frown, unable to place who it is. “Who’s speaking, please?”

“This is Marjorie. We spoke yesterday.”

Oh shit—the graffiti lady. “Oh yes, hello, Marjorie. It’s a bad line, and I couldn’t hear you properly,” I lie.

“It’s Danny Rupert,” she replies.

“I’m sorry?” I frown.

“My neighbor’s name is Danny Rupert. I couldn’t remember it yesterday.”

I screw up my face and cringe. Oh God. I hope it hasn’t gone to print. I completely forgot to go back to it. Panic begins to swirl in my stomach.

Shit.

“I think the story has already gone to print, Marjorie. I’m so sorry I didn’t recheck it with you.”

“Oh, that’s okay, dear. It doesn’t matter—no harm done. I felt foolish being unable to remember, and I wanted to call you.”

My stomach rolls. It does matter—you don’t get names wrong in a story. Reporting 101.

Fuck.

I puff air into my cheeks as disappointment in myself runs through me. Damn it. This is not a little mistake; it’s a major fuckup. “Thanks for the call, Marjorie. I’ll call you when I get into the office and let you know when it’s running.” With any luck it won’t be until tomorrow, and I will have time to change it.

I hang up and internally kick myself. Damn it. Focus.

I walk into the café opposite the Miles Media building and order my coffee. I drag the paper out of my bag and slam it onto the table.

I am not going to hold on to this job with sloppy mistakes like that. I’m so annoyed at myself.

I flick through the paper, and then something catches my eye.

Satanic Graffiti in New York

A spate of bizarre graffiti attacks on houses in the West Village has the residents running scared. Marjorie Bishop’s house has been graffitied three times, and the police are refusing to take action. Another resident, Robert Day Daniels, has been suffering too.

I frown as I read the story. What?

Marjorie said she didn’t tell anyone about this other than me. I read it again and again. It quotes my story almost word for word, and each time I get more confused.

Did she tell another reporter the same wrong name? I take out my phone and dial her number, and she answers on the first ring. “Hello, Marjorie, this is Emily Foster.”

“Oh hello, dear; that was quick.”

“Marjorie, did you speak to anyone else from another paper about this graffiti story?”

“No, dear.”

“You haven’t told anyone?” I frown.

“Not a soul. The street and I made a collective decision that we only wanted Miles Media to report on it. That way we knew the police would have to listen.”

I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears. What the hell is going on?

“Coffee for Emily,” the cashier calls.

“Thank you.” I take my coffee and head back out into the rain, confused as all hell.

It’s one o’clock, and I’m on my lunch break. I arrive at the top floor and walk through to reception. “Hello.” I smile nervously. “I’m here to see Mr. Miles. It’s an urgent matter.”

I’ve been racking my brain all day, and the only theory I can come up with isn’t pretty. I need to talk to Jameson.

The blonde receptionist smiles. “Just a moment, please. Your name is?”

“Emily Foster.”

She pushes the intercom. “Mr. Miles, I have an Emily Foster here to see you.”

“Send her in,” his velvety voice purrs without hesitation.

I feel my stomach dip with nerves, and I follow her out into the corridor and across the marble. Damn it, I still haven’t bought rubber-soled shoes yet. I try to tiptoe so I don’t click as I walk. “Just knock on the end door.”

Holy shit. My heart begins to pump, and I force a smile. “Thank you.”

She disappears up the hall, and I close my eyes as I stand in front of the door, bracing myself. Okay, here goes.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Come in,” I hear Jameson call. I scrunch my eyes shut as nerves dance deep in my stomach.

I open the door, and there he sits in a navy suit. With his white shirt, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, he looks like God’s gift to women. Maybe he is. “Hello, Emily,” he whispers as his sexy eyes hold mine.

“Hello.”

Jameson stands and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us. “Please, take a seat.”

I fall into the chair, and he sits behind his desk and leans back in his chair; his eyes don’t leave me.

“I wanted to see you about something,” I say as I glance at the glass of scotch beside him. I don’t know what kind of work has scotch involved, but where’s my glass?

I could do with a drink or ten right now.

He sits back and smirks as if amused.

“Umm.” I pause and swallow the sand in my throat. “So something has happened, and I know I could get into trouble for it, but I feel like you need to know,” I blurt out in a rush.

“Such as?”

“I got a name wrong in a story.”

Jameson’s unimpressed eyes hold mine.

“But it’s the weirdest thing,” I stammer. “Today the Gazette has published the same story . . . with my error in it.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Look, I don’t know, and I could be totally wrong, and I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, but I think . . .” I pause.

“You think what?” he snaps.

“I just know for certain that the Gazette didn’t get that story themselves, and they most definitely couldn’t make the same mistake as I have. The old lady in the story contacted me directly because she would only talk to Miles Media.” I put the Gazette down on the desk in front of him, and he reads it and stares at me for a moment as if processing my words.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I got the name wrong.” I point to the name where my mistake was made. “This here is my error.”

Jameson brushes his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip as he stares at the paper before him, deep in thought. “Thank you. I’ll discuss this with Tristan and get back to you.”

“Okay.” I stand. “I’m sorry for making the error. It was unprofessional, and it won’t happen again.” My eyes go to Jameson, and I wait for him to say something. Is that it?

“Goodbye, Emily,” he says flatly.

Oh, he’s dismissing me. “Goodbye.” I turn, feeling dejected, and make my way downstairs. I don’t know whether I just did the right thing by telling him my theory. Maybe it will only work against me.

It’s four o’clock, and I’m drinking my afternoon coffee. My phone rings, and I answer it. “Hello.”

“Hello, Emily, this is Sammia. Mr. Miles would like to see you in his office, please.”

I frown. “Now?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay. I’m on my way up.”

Ten minutes later, I knock on Jameson’s door. “Come in,” he calls.

I walk in and find him sitting behind his large desk. His face breaks into a sexy smile as his eyes find mine. “Hello.”

My stomach dances with nerves. “Hi.”

“Have you had a good day?” he asks, and in slow motion I watch as his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He’s different this afternoon. He has a playful air about him.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Tristan, and we have a special project that we would like you to work on,” he says as he leans back in his chair.

“You do?”

“Yes. We want you to write a story to publish.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I shrug. “What’s the story on?”

Jameson narrows his eyes as he thinks. “I was thinking . . . something along the lines of lovebites.”

I frown in confusion. “Love bites?”

Amusement flashes across his face as if he’s trying to keep it straight. “Lovebites, one word. Plural.”

I stare at him for a moment in confusion. I don’t get it.

Oh my God. He’s talking about the hickey I gave him. Of all the nerve. Trust him to bring that up.

I tilt my chin to the sky in defiance. “I think I’m better equipped to write a story on premature ejaculation. That way you could help me with it.” I smile sweetly.

Jameson’s eyes dance with delight. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” I reply straight faced. “News stories are so much better when they have evidence to back them up.”

Amusement crosses his face as he sips his scotch. I have no idea what’s going through that head of his this afternoon. Maybe he’s had too many scotches. We stare at each other, and I want to blurt out, “Did you ever think of me?” But I can’t because this is work, and I’m acting uninterested. Actually, let me rephrase that. I’m not interested—I’m slightly fascinated. Huge difference.

“How was your weekend?” he asks.

“Fine.”

His eyebrow rises. “Just fine?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.” I don’t want to tell him that I broke up with Robbie, but then I don’t want to lie to him either.

“You got back Sunday night?”

“Yes.”

His eyes hold mine, and I know he wants to ask about Robbie and me but is holding his tongue.

“How was your weekend?” I ask.

“Great,” he replies as his eyes drop to my lips. “I had a great weekend.”

I frown. Does great mean just generally great, or does great mean “I had great hot sex with a gorgeous, great woman all weekend”?

Stop it.

“Sorry about that,” Tristan says as he breezes into the room. He smiles warmly and shakes my hand. “I’m Tristan.” He’s slightly younger than Jameson, and his hair is a lighter brown and has a curl to it. His eyes are big and brown. He’s very different from Jameson but has that same power thing going on.

“I’m Emily.”

His eyes hold mine. “Hello, Emily.” He and Jameson make eye contact, and at that moment, I know that he knows Jameson and my history together. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat.

Why would he have told his brother about me?

Tristan glances at Jameson’s scotch. “What time is it? Has happy hour started?”

“Four thirty, and yes,” Jameson replies.

Tristan goes to the bar and pours himself a glass of the amber liquid. He holds a glass up. “Would you like a drink, Emily?”

“No thanks. I’m working,” I reply nervously.

Amusement crosses Jameson’s face as he lifts his drink to his lips.

Okay, what the hell is that look? Is it a condescending smirk or nearly a smile? I can’t read this man at all.

Jameson sits still and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask. I really don’t know what kind of meeting has scotch involved. Maybe I should have had a glass. God, no. Remember what you did last time you got drunk with this man. You tried to suck all the blood out of him.

“As we just discussed, we have a special project we would like you to work on,” Jameson says.

I nod as I look between them.

“Yes. In light of what you told me this morning, we want you to write a story for us to publish.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I look between them. “What’s the story on?”

“Name a subject.” His tongue slips out and runs across his bottom lip, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “We have a secret project coming up, and I wanted you to be involved, but I need to know if you can report on a subject.”

“You know I can. I’ve worked for regional papers for five years as a reporter.”

“This is strictly off the record,” Tristan says. “You cannot tell a soul. It’s imperative.”

“I won’t,” I say as I look between them.

“For some time, we have thought that somebody on your floor is selling our stories to our competitors so that they are breaking before us. What you told us this morning all but confirms it.”

I frown. “How do you know?”

“Trust me; we know,” Jameson replies. “Our stocks are falling and so is our credibility. It needs to stop.”

I frown as I listen.

“We want you to make up a fake news story and submit it through the normal channels, and we will see if it turns up in our competitor’s papers.”

I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up. “What would I write about?”

“Something worth selling. It doesn’t have to be real. The faker the better—then it’s more easily traceable.”

“Who do you think it is?” I ask as excitement runs through me. This is my chance. If I do well here, I can prove myself as a valuable employee. Imagine if I cracked the case. I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. I need to act as if exciting things like this happen to me every day.

“We have no idea, but we know it’s not you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it began before you started,” Jameson says as he stands and goes to the bar.

“Okay.” I think for a moment. “I could do that.” I look between them. “When do you want the story by?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, if possible.”

“Okay.”

A voice comes through the intercom. “Tristan, you have London on line two.”

He stands and pushes the button. “Give me a moment to get back to my office.”

“Okay,” the receptionist answers.

“Sorry, I have to take this call. We are settling today on a new company. We’ll talk more tomorrow afternoon,” he says.

“Sure.” I smile. Oh, I like him. He’s friendlier than his brother.

He shakes my hand. “Remember, not a word to anyone. I would hate to have to fire you.” He gives me a playful wink, but something tells me he’s not joking.

I frown. What the hell? “Okay.”

“I look forward to reading your story,” he says. He turns and walks out of the office and closes the door behind him.

I turn to Jameson. His eyes are dark, and he’s holding his glass of scotch. He sips it in slow motion, and I smile nervously as my heart begins to race.

He raises his eyebrow and sips his scotch again. The electricity in the air between us is palpable.

“I should get back to my desk,” I whisper.

His eyes stay fixed on me as if he wants to say something, but he remains silent.

“Is there anything else you wanted, sir?” I whisper as I stand.

He puts his drink down on the desk and walks toward me. “Yes, actually. There is.”

He stops in front of me so that our faces are only an inch apart, and I stare up at him.

His close proximity steals my breath, and like a wave in the ocean, arousal swims between us. “Can you feel that?” he breathes.

I nod because it’s undeniable.

“I’m so sexually attracted to you that it’s insane,” he whispers. “From the first moment I saw you on that plane.”

I stare at him as I get a vision of him throwing me across his desk.

He trails his index finger down my face, over the center of my chest between my breasts, and then lower to my stomach, and then he skims it over my pubic bone before resting his hand on my hip. “I have a request.”

“Yes.” I close my eyes as I feel myself melt under his touch.

He leans forward so that his lips are almost touching my ear. His breath tickles and sends goose bumps down my spine. “I want you to wear your gray skirt tomorrow, the one with the split.”

I frown as I listen to his whispered words.

“Your white silk blouse, and the lace bra that you wear underneath it.”

Holy shit . . .

“No stockings.” His hand grips my hip bone, and I clench my sex.

He licks my ear. “I want you to wear your hair in a ponytail so I can wrap it around my hand.”

I get a vision of him wrapping my ponytail around his hand, and I nearly combust.

This man is a god.

I stare up at him. “Anything else?” I breathe.

“Yes.” His eyes darken, and he reaches up and rubs his pointer finger over my bottom lip. “Tonight, I want you to take your vibrator.” His voice is deep and hushed and doing things to my insides that I didn’t know were possible.

My eyes widen as he slightly parts my lips with his finger. Then he puts it in my mouth, and I find myself sucking it. His eyes darken as he watches me, and a slow, sexy smile crosses his face.

“I want you to fuck yourself. Long . . . deep and slow.”

Oh . . . Lord have mercy.

“Why would I do that?” I breathe.

“Because I know it will be my face that you will see when you come.”

He bends and licks up my neck, and then he bites my ear, and my legs nearly buckle underneath me. “Do your homework, and you will be well rewarded,” he whispers in my ear before tenderly kissing my neck with an open mouth. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I’m like putty in his hands. I can’t even pretend to fight this . . . whatever this is.

He dusts his lips across mine but then steps back, and my body jerks at his withdrawal. I pant as I stare at him.

“Do your homework, Emily. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I stare at him for a moment; he’s dismissing me.

I frown as he turns and goes back to sit at his desk as if nothing ever happened.

He picks up his scotch and sips it as his eyes hold mine. He slides a security key across the desk. “This will get you to this floor.”

Huh.

What in the hell was that?

I snatch the key and leave his office in a fluster. I get into the elevator with my heart hammering.

For fuck’s sake. I need to find some self-control, and I need to find it quick.

Because he has it all.