“Oh,” I stammer in a fluster. “We ran into each other, that’s all.”
Jameson raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Oh, don’t be shy, Foster. We get along famously,” Jake the imbecile says.
I feel the blood drain from my face. Just shut the hell up, would you?
I turn back to Jameson, hoping to change the subject. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes.” His eyes float over to Jake. “I want to know what leads you have, Mr. Peters.”
“Call me Jake,” he says.
Jameson glares at him but remains silent. Oh man. This is uncomfortable. I grip my notepad with white-knuckle force. Why did he have to say we went out together?
We did not go out together. I feel my face begin to perspire.
“Get to the point,” Jameson snaps.
“Well, I’m chasing a few leads, nothing concrete yet. It’s very early days.”
“Early days?” Jameson repeats. “Are you aware, Mr. Peters, of the importance of a swift resolution on this matter?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“No buts,” he growls. “Our stocks dropped by four million dollars today. Every damn day they drop by that much.” He slams his hand on the table, making us both jump. “Do not tell me it’s early days,” he bellows.
Jake and I wither in our chairs. I’ve never seen Jameson this angry. He is stressed.
I wonder if he went for a run this morning. I’m guessing not.
“Mr. Miles,” I interrupt.
Jameson puts his hand up to silence me. “Emily, I want four stories this week.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They need to be sharp, relevant, and, most importantly, traceable.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“You can go,” Jameson snaps. “That is all.”
I frown as my eyes flick between him and Jake. Who’s he talking to? “Me?” I point to my chest.
“Yes, you,” he snaps. “Who else would I be talking to?”
I feel anger flutter in my stomach. “Fine.” I pick up my notepad and stand.
“I want the stories by four o’clock each day.”
“Very well,” I call as I walk toward the door.
“Send Tristan in,” he snaps.
I’m not your damn secretary. I open the door and fake a smile. “Sure,” I say through gritted teeth as I close the door behind me.
Damn rude pig. Who the heck does he think he is? I close my eyes in pity for Jake. He’s going to get eaten alive in there.
Jameson Miles is fucking mean when he’s stressed. I see why he runs—probably keeps him out of jail. Who knows what would happen if he didn’t exercise?
I walk out to the reception area and then through to the other side of the building, and I knock on Tristan’s door.
I smile when I hear how much he sounds like his brother. I open the door. “Jameson asked me to . . .” I pause as I try to make it sound nicer than how it came out.
“He wants to see me?” Tristan smirks.
“Yes.”
He stands. “Everything okay?” he asks casually as we begin to walk back to reception.
“He’s . . .” I shrug as I try to think of a description. “Agitated.”
“Hmm.” He frowns as if concerned. “He has a lot going on, but you already know that.”
“Yes.” I smile as my eyes hold his. Does he know?
He winks as he walks down the corridor toward Jameson’s office. “Catch you later.”
What was that wink? Was that code for “I know you fuck him”? Does he know we are back together?
Shit.
The receptionist isn’t at her desk, and I glance down the hallway toward Jameson’s office. Damn it, what’s going on in there?
The door opens. Shit, I don’t want them to see me. I duck behind the reception desk, and then I hear Jameson’s sharp voice as he says something, and I wince. Jake storms past and gets into the elevator and hits the button with force.
The doors close, and my eyes widen as I peer out from behind the desk. What the hell did he just say?
I inhale deeply through my nose as I try to calm myself down.
“For God’s sake, Jameson,” Tristan snaps. “Tone it down. The poor bastard is doing the best he can.”
“Bullshit. He’s useless. He’s been here a week and hasn’t a fucking clue what’s going on. He’s more interested in chasing the damn girls around downstairs.” I go to the bar and pour myself a scotch and then walk over to the window and stare at the city below.
“It’s ten o’clock,” Tristan says dryly as he watches me.
“So?” I snap as I sip the scotch and feel the warmth of it roll down my throat.
“And the damn girl downstairs wouldn’t happen to be Emily Foster, would it?”
“Don’t fucking start.” I roll my eyes. I’m fucking livid that she went out with him on the weekend. “Have you got the management report?” I snap to change the subject.
“No, it’s in my office.” He heads for the door. “I’ll go get it.” He disappears as I stare out over New York.
“Hi.” I hear a soft voice from behind me.
I sigh as my gaze stays out the window. “Go back to work, Emily.”
“Are you all right?” she says as she walks toward me.
“I’m fine.” I clench my jaw to stop myself from looking at her.
She walks over and takes my scotch from me and goes to the sink and pours it down the drain.
“What the hell are you doing?” I frown.
She smiles up at me and slides her hands under my suit jacket and around my waist. “Looking after my man.”
“Don’t tip my fucking drink out.”
“Then don’t drink because you’re stressed. You’re playing with fire, Jameson.”
“You’re not my mother.”
She smiles sexily and goes up onto her toes and kisses me softly.
I glare at her. “I’m furious at you.”
“I know.” She kisses me again. “I wasn’t going out, and then we had to spy on Aaron’s boyfriend because he was meeting someone there from Grindr. And Jake turned up and wouldn’t stop talking to us. He’s so annoying.”
I glare at her.
She smiles and snuggles into my chest. “I missed you this weekend.”
I feel myself relax for the first time since I dropped her off at home on Saturday.
“Don’t miss me, Em.” I sigh.
“I can’t help it.” She kisses my lips, totally oblivious to anything I’m saying. “If you’re stressed, you go down to the gym, or you come and get me. What about karate? I hear that’s amazing.”
I roll my eyes. “Doing karate and turning into the fucking Kung Fu Panda will not relieve my stress, Emily. It’s laughable that you think that it would.”
“Okay, well, hell, go for a run. I don’t want you day drinking.”
I snap my arm around her waist, unable to control myself any longer. “And I told you I don’t want you out with other men. Especially him.”
She runs her fingers through my stubble as she smiles softly. “You’re my only man,” she whispers up at me. “It’s you that I’m thinking about.”
I feel my anger slowly leave me as we kiss.
“I need you tonight,” she says softly.
God, I need her too. No, stick to the rules. “It’s not Tuesday.”
“I don’t care.”
“Do you have to disobey me on every single thing, Ms. Foster?”
“Just you wait to see how naughty I’m going to be tonight, Mr. Miles,” she breathes as I pull her against me to feel my erection.
“Ahem.” A voice sounds at the door, and we both look up, startled.
Emily jumps back from me. “Tristan,” she splutters. “I was just . . .” Her eyes flick between him and me. “I mean, I . . .”
Tristan chuckles. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” she stammers. “I’m leaving.” She practically runs for the door. “Ah, um, goodbye.”
I smirk as I watch her face turn a deep crimson. Tristan already knows—we tell each other everything. “Goodbye, Ms. Foster. I shall send the car for you at seven.”
She nods in embarrassment and scurries from the office, and I smile after her.
Tristan’s eyes hold mine for a moment. “She’s good for you.”
“That’s debatable.”
I smile broadly at the closed elevator doors in front of me. It worked. I wanted to calm him down, and it worked. He’s a mirror. If I’m calm, he’s calm.
Maybe if I’m honest, he’ll be honest, and I don’t know what that means for my little hard-to-get act, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough. He didn’t seem annoyed when I told him I missed him—he actually seemed relieved. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. I get back to my floor, and my eyes scan the room as I walk back to my desk.
Somebody working here, alongside me, is a thief. They’re stealing from the Miles family; the company’s value is plummeting, and my Jay is stressed beyond belief.
I wish I could talk to Molly and Aaron about this. I’m sure if we brainstormed together, we could come up with more than Jake has.
I can’t; I gave them my word I wouldn’t tell a soul. I take a seat back at my desk.
“How did it go?” Aaron asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
“It’s blatantly obvious that Mr. Miles has a thing for you.” Molly smirks.
“Why is it?” I ask.
“We never got this kind of specialized training program.” Her eyes flick to Aaron. “Did we?”
“Nope,” he replies as his eyes stay glued to his computer. “Please tell me you are secretly going up there to suck his dick.”
I smirk but stay silent.
Molly’s eyes come to me in question. “Are you?”
I shrug. I can’t lie to them; I just won’t elaborate.
“What the fuck?” Aaron whispers as he rolls his chair over to mine; Molly, too, rolls her chair over next to mine. “You have seen him?”
“Possibly.”
“What the fuck?” Molly whispers. “When?”
“A few times, but Friday night was the last time I saw him.”
Aaron does a cross over his chest and pretends to pray. “Thank you, Jesus.”
“But don’t say anything,” I whisper. “It’s just very casual, nothing to get excited about yet.”
Molly’s eyes widen in exasperation. “Are you kidding me? Screwing Jameson Miles is something to get excited about, woman. Have you seen him?”
I smile broadly at their over-the-top reactions. “I’m just playing it cool, but I am going up there for a project with Tristan and not to see Jay.” That’s not lying—it is true . . . ish.
Aaron puts his hand over his chest. “Oh hell, she calls him Jay. Be still my beating heart.”
“Kill me now.” Molly sighs dreamily. “Have you been to his apartment?”
“Uh-huh, and he spent the night at mine.”
Their eyes widen. “He came to your house?” Aaron shrieks.
“Shh,” I whisper as I look at the people around us. “Keep it down, and you can’t tell a soul. Especially not Ava—you know what she’s like.”
“Oh God, can you imagine?” Molly rolls her eyes. “She’ll be your new bestie if she knows you are with him. She’ll be stuck to you like glue if there’s a chance she will get to his brothers.”
“Well, she can’t have Tristan.” I tut as I turn on my computer. “He’s way too nice for her.” I shrug. “He’s taken, anyway, I think.”
We begin to work, and Aaron’s phone rings. “It’s Paul,” he stammers in a panic.
“Decline,” I say without looking up.
“But I want to see what he has to say.” He picks up the phone, and Molly snatches it from him and hits decline.
“He says ‘fuck me on Grindr’ to the whole world. Will you stop being pathetic? Kick this asshole to the curb,” she snaps.
Aaron’s shoulders slump sadly.
I rub his back in sympathy. “It will get easier, babe.”
“Yeah, when we set fire to his sleazy ball sack,” Molly whispers angrily.
I giggle. “Set fire to his sleazy ball sack—you speak with such articulation, Moll.”
“I know, right? This is why I’m a reporter.” She stands. “I’m going to make us coffee. You both want one?”
“Uh-huh.”
Aaron blows out a deflated breath. “Can you find us some cake too? Surely it’s somebody’s birthday around here.”
Molly looks around. “Yep, where’s that Uber guy when we need him?” Her eyes come to me. “Oh my God, was that cheesecake last week sent from Jameson?”
I smile broadly.
Aaron puts his head down and pretends to hit it on the desk. “He even sends cheesecakes. The man is a for real fucking god.”
Buzz goes my door buzzer. “Hello.” I smile.
“Hello, Ms. Foster. This is Alan, Mr. Miles’s driver.”
My face falls. “Oh. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mr. Miles asked me to collect you and take you to his apartment. He’s been delayed on a conference call and will be joining you shortly.”
“Oh, okay. I’m on my way.” I grab my overnight bag that I packed, and with one last look around my apartment, I head downstairs.
I walk out onto the curb to see the driver in his customary black suit standing next to the limo. “Hello,” I say nervously as I approach him.
“Hello.”
“I’m Emily.” I hold out my hand, embarrassed that I haven’t introduced myself before now.
“I’m Alan.” He smiles warmly as we shake hands. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” He opens the door, and I climb into the back of the car. He closes the door, and we drive through the New York night. This doesn’t seem real—me sitting in the back of a limo being driven to Jameson’s apartment by his driver.
We get to his building, and he stops in the pull-up area and opens the door. “I’ll take you up.” He goes to take my bag from me.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it. Thank you anyway.”
He frowns. I see his disappointment.
“Unless you want to carry it,” I splutter.
“Thank you.” He smiles as he takes it from me. “I would prefer to.”
Jeez. He got offended that I wanted to carry my own bag. What is this alternate universe?
We get into the swanky elevator, and the attendant already knows what floor to take me to. He must know Alan.
I hold my breath, nervous as we ride in silence. We get to the floor, and I tentatively follow Alan as he opens the door. “Mr. Miles shouldn’t be long. He’s still at the office. His call is going longer than he expected.”
“Thank you.” I smile.
“Can I get you anything else?”
With a courteous nod, he closes the door and leaves me alone. I turn to see the lamps strategically on, creating a breathtaking canvas to the view. The twinkling lights over New York are nothing short of spectacular. I take my phone out and snap some pictures. I couldn’t be such a fangirl when he is here.
I walk into the bedroom and put my bag into the empty walk-in closet, and then I walk into his. Suits and business shirts are strategically lined up, and there are rows and rows of expensive polished shoes.
I run my hand over the sleeves of the suits as I look around. I open the top drawer of the dresser, and I smile at his over-the-top organization. His ties are all rolled and displayed as if this is a luxury men’s boutique. Watches . . . I count them. Ten expensive watches are lined up. And then I see something rolled up next to his watches. My heart stops when I see the initials.
E.F.
My scarf.
He kept it.
Not only did he keep it, but it’s also with his special things. I pick it up and hold it in my hands as I stare at it. My eyes close, and I inhale deeply; the faint smell of my perfume still lingers.
I didn’t imagine it back then. He was right there with me. I smile broadly and put the scarf back where it was and carefully close the drawer.
I don’t know what to do with this information, but I’m pretty damn pleased with my find. My heart is racing.
He kept it.
I walk through the apartment as I look around. I run my hand over the heavy marble countertops in the kitchen and smile at the sheer luxury of the place.
I open the fridge, but it’s surprisingly sparse. There is chicken and a few ingredients. I open the pantry and find some other things. I glance at the wine fridge and frown—it’s full.
Of course it is.
How often does Mr. Miles have a liquid dinner?
Hmm, I need to get a grip on this stress of his.
I pour myself a glass of wine, take out the ingredients, and look through the cupboards to find the pots and pans and chopping boards and knives. I search Spotify on my phone and put on some chill music.
I begin to chop the chicken with a huge goofy smile on my face.
He kept my scarf.
Forty-five minutes later, I hear the front door open. “Em?” he calls.
“In the kitchen.”
“Hmm . . . something smells good.” He kisses me and wraps his arms around me from behind. “What are you cooking?”
“Fuck bunny stew.”
He laughs loudly, and it’s a beautiful sound. It does things to my insides. “Does your mother know you’re a cannibal?” He kisses my cheek from behind.
I giggle as I stir the pot. “No, and don’t tell her.”
“You didn’t need to cook. I would have taken you out.” He pours himself a glass of wine.
“It’s Monday.” I frown.
“And?” He sips his wine.
“You don’t go out to dinner on a school night.”
“I go out every night.”
“What?” I frown. “You eat out every night?”
My mouth falls open, and I put my hand on my hip. “Jameson Miles, you have more money than sense. How do you relax if you go out to dinner every night?”
“I sit in a restaurant and eat.” He shrugs. “It’s really quite easy.”
I roll my eyes in disgust as I keep stirring. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” He takes me in his arms and stares down at me. “Did you really miss me over the weekend?”
I go up onto my toes and kiss his big beautiful lips. “I did, actually.”
He holds me tight.
“This is where you tell me that you missed me too,” I mutter dryly into his shoulder.
“I don’t miss people.”
“Ugh,” I huff as I pull out of his arms and go back to stirring the dinner. “Can you go out of the room so I can drug your food now?” I ask. “I plan on robbing your place.”
He chuckles. “Only if you promise to take advantage of my body while I’m sleeping.”
I giggle. “Deal.”
I dish up our dinner, and we take seats at the kitchen counter. I hold my breath as he takes his first bite. “Hmm, delicious,” he hums.
I smile proudly.
“A fuck bunny who cooks.” He smirks around a forkful of food.
“I love to cook. It’s my hobby.”
He frowns and watches me for a moment. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Emily.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. You’re very . . .” He pauses as he thinks of the right word. “Unaffected.”
“Unaffected by what?” I smirk as I eat.
He shrugs. “New York.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend who cooked for you before?”
“I’ve only ever had one serious relationship, and she was a workaholic like me.” He shrugs. “We would both get home too late from work. Eating out was easier.”
I sip my wine as I stare at him. I would love to blurt out a million questions about her . . . but I won’t. I’ll play it cool.
He moves to get his wine, and he winces.
“What’s wrong?”
“My back’s tight.” He stands and twists his upper body to stretch. “Somebody insisted on me firing my masseuse.”
“Oh, her,” I scoff. “Don’t ruin my night. I’ll find you a new masseuse tomorrow.”
He stretches some more. “Please do.”
“Why does your back get so tight?”
He sits back down. “When I get wound up, my back tightens.”
“What else happens when you get wound up?”
He chews his food as if contemplating his answer. “My temper gets the best of me.”
I smile broadly.
“What?” He smirks.
“All this time I thought you were an asshole, when really you were just stressed out?”
He chuckles. “And what’s your excuse for being a bitch?”
I sip my wine. “Nothing. I really am just a bitch.”
He holds his glass up to clink it with mine. His eyes have a tender glow to them.
“Thank you for dinner. It’s delicious.” He leans over and kisses me. “Like you.”
I remember something. “Oh, and you will be pleased to know, I brought my workout gear so I can come running in the morning.”
“You did?” he asks in surprise.
“Uh-huh.”
“I run fast.”
“Good, because I walk slow.”
A few hours later we both laugh out loud into the darkness.
“You did not,” he says.
I giggle. “Uh-huh.” It’s late, and we are lying in bed, facing each other, and talking after making love.
“What on earth?” He rubs his hand up over my stomach and then breast as he listens. His face is alight with mischief. “How?”
“Well . . .” I think for a moment. “It was my first car, and I’d only had it a week. I was driving with my friend, and the day was as hot as hell. We were on our way to buy some cheap jeans from a market, and the temperature gauge started overheating.”
He smiles as he listens.
“We pulled into a service station, and I called my dad, and he told me to put oil in it.” I shrug. “But we didn’t know where the oil went, so we assumed it went in the little hole that you measure it from.”
“The dipstick?” he gasps in disbelief. “How on earth did you get it in there?”
I laugh. This is the most ridiculous story I ever heard of. “We borrowed a funnel and then poured it in, and it overflowed everywhere.” I shake my head as I remember it as clear as day. “We thought it was fine and started driving, and then oil we’d spilled on the engine caught on fire.”
His eyes widen. “What happened?”
“My beloved five-hundred-dollar car that I saved up for a year for was frigging totaled in just one week; that’s what happened.”
We both laugh and then eventually fall silent.
I lean onto my elbow as I look over at the gorgeous naked man beside me. “You must have done something stupid in your life, Jameson Miles.”
He smiles softly over at me in the darkness. “Yeah. I have.”
“What?” I smirk.
He reaches over and cups my face in his hand, and his thumb dusts over my bottom lip. “I never asked for your number.”
