Emily
On my laptop, I scroll through the information that I’ve collected today. I have nothing to go on other than Hayden. He’s the only person who has a shady past and the only person I can think of who would double-cross Miles Media.
But selling shitty stories is a far cry from stealing millions of dollars from a global company. I don’t think he’s capable of something like this.
So why is my gut telling me that he is somehow involved?
I check my phone . . . no messages.
Please call me.
I get a vision of my Jameson all alone in his big apartment, and my heart aches. I’ve decided that I’m going over there tomorrow night and knocking the door down.
I can’t give him the space that he needs . . . I need him.
The door buzzes, and I jump up, excited. Jameson. I run to the telecom to see two police officers on the screen. I push the button. “Hello?”
“Is that Emily Foster?”
“Yes.”
“Can we come up, please?”
“What’s wrong?” I whisper. Oh my God, what’s happened?
“We need to talk to you.”
“Has something happened?” I stammer.
“Let us in, please.”
“Okay.” I push the button with my heart pumping hard.
Moments later they knock on the door, and I open it in a rush. “Hello.”
Two solemn-looking police officers force a smile. “Are you Emily Foster?”
“Yes.” My heart begins to race.
“Can we talk to you for a moment, please?”
I stand back. “Yes, please come in.”
“We would like to talk to Jameson Miles, please.” They look around my apartment and then turn their attention back to me. “Is he here?”
“No, he isn’t.” I feel my heart begin to pump harder in my chest. “What’s this about?”
“He’s wanted for questioning in regards to an assault earlier this evening.”
“What?” I frown.
“Gabriel Ferrara was attacked tonight outside a restaurant by Mr. Miles. A warrant has been issued for his arrest.”
“Is he all right?”
“Mr. Ferrara has significant facial injuries and has been taken to the hospital.”
I put my hand over my mouth in horror.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Mr. Ferrara was getting into a car when Mr. Miles approached him in the dark. A fight broke out, and Mr. Miles assaulted him.”
“Where was this?”
“Out in front of Bryant Park, opposite Lucina’s.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is Jameson all right?”
“Witnesses say he ran off through the park.”
I close my eyes in relief . . . thank God.
“You have the wrong person,” I stammer. “Jameson would never attack someone. He’s the CEO of a company, not a pub brawler.” That’s a complete lie; I know Jameson would love to beat Ferrara to a pulp . . . “I don’t know where he is,” I assert with renewed determination.
“Can we search your apartment?” the policeman asks.
“Of course. He’s not here, though.” I stand back to allow them access.
The police search the apartment and come back to me in the living area. They hand me a business card. “As soon as you hear from him, you need to call us. If you don’t, you may be charged with obstruction of justice. Hiding a person of interest from authorities is a very serious offense.”
“Okay.” I storm to the door and open it in a rush. “Good night.” The officers leave, and I close the door behind them with a slam.
I put my two hands over my mouth in horror and dial the number.
Jameson’s phone rings out . . . he wouldn’t answer my call anyway. “Damn it.”
In a panic, I call Tristan.
“Hello.”
“Tristan,” I stammer. “Do you know where Jameson is?”
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“The police were just here, and Jameson apparently assaulted Ferrara. They’ve issued a warrant for his arrest. Do you know where he is?”
“What?”
“He’s not answering my calls, and witnesses said he ran off across the park.”
“What do I do?”
“I’ll try calling him and call you back.”
“Okay.” I hang up and begin to pace . . . where are you?
Moments later Tristan calls back. “He’s not answering. I’ll come over.”
“Thank you.”
An hour later Tristan and I walk through Bryant Park. We haven’t talked other than about finding Jameson. He’s angry with me about Jake and obviously doesn’t want to discuss it.
I’m angry with me.
It’s one o’clock in the morning, and now I’m getting frantic. My eyes roam over the park in the darkness. “Where could he be?” I whisper.
“I don’t know. Try calling him again,” he says.
I dial his number and keep walking through the darkened park when we hear something.
Tristan’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hand. “Shh, listen.”
From the darkness, we can hear a faint ringtone. It goes silent, and I redial his number.
We both look around frantically, and then we see the white glow as the screen lights up. “Here.” I run over to the side and see a phone lying in the grass. My eyes widen in horror as Tristan picks it up. He swipes it on and puts in the code, and the screen lights up.
His eyes rise to meet mine. “It’s Jameson’s phone.”
We both look up across the darkened park as a sense of fear sweeps through me. “What the hell has happened to him?” I whisper.
It’s four o’clock in the morning, and Tristan and I are frantic. We’ve walked for hours. Alan, Elliot, and Christopher are all out looking for Jameson.
“He’s probably just hiding out from the police somewhere. He’ll be fine,” Tristan tries to comfort me. I’m in full-blown tears now; there’s no hiding my distress.
“This is all my fault,” I whisper as we walk. “If I didn’t go to that setup, none of this would have happened.”
“What do you mean, setup?”
“Jake told me that he had information on a story that Ferrara was publishing the next day about Jameson and that he would tell me out of work. I didn’t want to worry Jameson, so I lied and went to meet him. He just wanted to get me alone, and he kissed me. I slapped him across the face and left, and then the next day . . .” I shrug. “You saw the pictures.”
He frowns. “So you weren’t seeing Jake?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m in love with fucking Jameson, you idiot.” I sob. “And he won’t let me explain.”
“Fucking hell, what a mess.” His phone rings, and he quickly answers. “Hello.”
He listens. “Yes.” He listens some more. “Is he all right?” He gasps. He puts his hand over his chest. “Thank God.”
“What?” I mouth.
“Thank you. I’m on my way.” He hangs up.
“What?” I whisper.
“Jameson is in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“He was hit by a car.”
My hands fly over my mouth in horror.
“He’s okay—just a concussion.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“I’m going to go get him.”
“Em . . .” He pauses. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The paps will be everywhere after this Ferrara bullshit, and Jameson doesn’t need more publicity. Who knows what reporters are at the hospital? Jameson specifically wants you kept out of the spotlight. Let me talk to him, and I’ll call you when we get home.”
Hope blooms in my chest. Is he trying to protect me?
“But I didn’t do anything wrong, Tristan. I want to see him.”
Empathy wins, and he takes me in his arms. “Let me get him home safely, and I’ll call you.” He pulls back and holds me by the arms as he studies me. “I promise I’ll call you. I’ll drop you home and then sort him out, and then I’ll call you. You have my word.” His eyes search mine.
“Okay.”
We walk for a moment in silence.
“I’m going to find out who stole the money if it’s the last thing I do,” I whisper.
“Emily, that’s a bad idea. Leave it to the detectives. You’re tired and emotional. Let’s get you home.”
I nod, knowing that he is right about everything and hating it even more.
I watch the nurse take my pulse as she holds my hand, and I inhale deeply. She’s older and motherly, the kind you want looking after you.
“How’s the headache?” she asks.
“Still there.”
She smiles and gets her flashlight and shines it in my eyes to inspect my pupils. “You have a serious concussion. You’re very lucky to be alive, young man.”
I hear chatter from outside, and Tristan appears at the door. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I smirk at the worry on his face.
He rushes to my side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“He is not fine,” the nurse interrupts. “He got hit by a car. He could have been killed. As it is, he has a very serious concussion.”
Tristan drags his hand down his face. “Jesus.”
“He’s staying in for the night, and as long as all his preliminary tests come back clear in the morning, he can go home.”
“Okay . . . thanks.” Tristan slumps into a seat beside the bed.
“I’ll be back in an hour with some pain medication.” She smiles.
“I don’t need it,” I reply.
“I’ll be back anyway.”
I roll my eyes, and she leaves us alone. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“Fucking hell, Jay, we’ve been out of our head with worry. Searching for you all night.”
“The police came to Emily’s, and then she called me, and then we found your phone in Bryant Park.”
“Emily?” I frown. “Why did you involve her?”
“She’s frantic, Jameson. She wanted to help find you.”
I roll my eyes. “I seriously doubt that.”
“You know, I don’t think she is on with that fuckwit Jake. This was a misunderstanding.”
“Shut up,” I dismiss him.
“No. You shut up. Why won’t you even talk to her?”
“Because she lied to me. Straight to my face about seeing another man.”
He watches me.
“And I don’t need that fucking shit in my life. I have enough going on, if you didn’t notice.”
“She wants to see you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to see her,” I snap.
“Then you need to end it with her; she’s frantic.”
I screw up my face in annoyance. “Just fucking go home. I’ll get Alan to pick me up tomorrow.”
“Why won’t you even talk about this?”
“Because this is none of your business. Emily and I are over. It was over the moment she started lying to me.”
The nurse reappears. “I’m tired,” I announce.
She smiles. “Yes, okay.” She turns her attention to Tristan. “We will call you in the morning when he’s ready for release.”
“Yeah, okay,” Tristan replies. His eyes hold mine, and I know that he knows I’m not tired at all.
The nurse goes into the bathroom.
“And what am I supposed to tell Emily? She’s waiting for my call,” he whispers angrily.
“I don’t give a fuck what you tell her—she’s not my problem.”
He drags his hand down his face. “You’re a selfish son of a bitch sometimes.”
“And your point is?”
He stares at me for an extended time. “See you tomorrow.”
My phone dances across the coffee table, and I pick it up in a rush.
“He’s okay.” Tristan sighs.
“Thank God.” I close my eyes in relief. “Can I see him?”
“He has a bad concussion and is going to be in the hospital for a few days.”
“What?”
“He said it’s best that you don’t come down; he doesn’t want the media circus.”
My eyes fill with tears. Damn it. It feels like all I do is cry at the moment.
“He’s sleeping now.”
“Did he say anything? About me?” I pause as I try to articulate my thoughts. “How do I get through to him, Tristan?”
He exhales heavily. “I don’t know. He’s got a lot of shit going on, Em. I don’t think he’s thinking straight at the moment. I’ll try and talk to him tomorrow.”
I screw up my face in tears. “Okay,” I whisper. “Can you call me . . . please?” God, I sound like the world’s biggest loser, but I don’t know what else to do. “I’m so worried about him, Tristan.”
“We all are, Em. I’ll call you tomorrow. Just try and get some sleep.”
“Okay, good night.” I hang up and get into the shower, and tears of relief begin to fall.
At least he’s okay, and tomorrow is another day. He will come back to me. I know he will.
I slide down in my chair as I peer across the street. I’m on Operation Spies Like Us.
Hayden is my stalking subject. I don’t know why, but I can’t let this go with him.
I called in sick to work. I figure this story may be the most important story of my entire career to crack.
I still haven’t spoken to Jameson, and with every day that passes, I lose a little more hope.
It’s seven o’clock in the evening. I’m wearing a blonde wig and dark glasses, and I have even rented a car. I’ve been sitting here for eight hours, with no sign of stupid Hayden.
He lives in a busy part of town in a nice apartment block; the street is bustling, and people are everywhere. I have to concentrate on not missing anything.
Damn it, come out already.
I’ve eaten all my snacks. I’m hungry and dying to go to the bathroom, but damn it, I want a lead or something . . . anything . . . throw me a bone here.
I look down the darkened street and back up the other way. God, Hayden’s probably on his way to Istanbul by now. That’s what I would do if I got fired from my job for stealing. Although apparently, he has no idea he’s still being investigated. He thinks being fired is as far as it’s going to go.
I lie back in the chair and let out a deflated breath. I glance over my shoulder and see Hayden stopped and talking to a woman on the sidewalk.
Shit.
I scoot down in the chair. They must be getting back from somewhere. They seem to be deep in a serious conversation, and she has a large bag over her shoulder. I take out my phone and snap a picture of the two of them. I zoom in and take a few shots. Who is she? Is that his girlfriend?
I text Aaron and Molly in a group chat and send them the picture.
I keep watching as they continue to talk. For five minutes, I watch them, and then Molly texts back.
I’ve seen her before, but I don’t know where from?
Does she work in a café or something??
Hmm. I text back.
I have no idea?
A text comes back from Aaron.
Yes, she used to work for Miles Media.
My eyes widen, and I text back.
How long ago?
He writes back.
No idea,
I haven’t seen her for a while though.
Shit. I send the photo to Tristan and text him.
Tristan, this girl apparently worked for Miles Media,
can you find out who she is from HR, please?
A reply immediately bounces back.
I reply.
Yes, I’m on operation stakeout.
He texts back.
Do you want me to come and help you?
I smirk.
I thought you thought this was a bad idea.
He replies.
I do, I don’t want you in danger.
I text back.
No, can you just text HR for me now, please?
He replies.
Ok.
I wait and wait and wait, and finally a text comes back.
Her name is Lara Aspin.
HR are searching for her job title in the morning,
I’ll keep you posted.
I smile, excited that I at least have a little lead. I have no idea what it means, but I guess it’s something. I text back.
Thanks.
I check my phone . . . no missed calls.
I turn the car on and pull out into the traffic, and a sense of dread begins to hang over me.
Nighttime is the worst; my bed without Jameson is cold. There’s a void where he’s supposed to be.
My heart is aching.
I’m losing hope for us . . . I miss him.
I lie on the couch and stare at the television. The cushion beneath my head is wet with tears.
It’s been three days since Jameson was hit by a car.
Six days since I’ve seen him . . . I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.
I’m in hell.
To make matters worse, I embarrassed myself last night by going to his apartment and crying into the security camera, begging for him to let me in.
He didn’t, and after half an hour his doorman ushered me out of the building.
I’m ashamed.
I don’t know what to do . . . he won’t see me; he won’t speak to me.
All the love and laughter we shared, reduced to nothing.
It’s like I never meant anything to him . . . maybe I didn’t?
I knew he had a reputation for being cold, but this . . . this coldness is next level.
How could he watch me on camera sob and beg and not even let me in?
I pick up my phone and text him.
I miss you.
I stare at my phone, and then I see the dots. I sit up . . . he’s typing something. My heart begins to race. This is the first time. I watch the dots roll as I wait . . . and then they stop.
Wait . . . what? Where is the text?
I wait.
The dots start again, and I smile through tears . . . yes. He’s replying. I wait and wait.
Then the dots stop once more.
“Send the text, damn it,” I snap.
I wait, and nothing comes through for half an hour. My anger starts to bubble. How dare he not even acknowledge me? Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?
I angrily text back.
At least have the guts to say what you want to.
A text immediately bounces back.
Move on, I have.
I read the message and then read the message again through tears . . . what?
Just like that . . . move on?
Fucking asshole.
I get up and throw my phone as hard as I can. The screen smashes on the coffee table. I’m so fucking furious that I have absolutely no control of the situation. I storm into the bathroom, I get under the shower, and, unable to help it, I cry . . . and cry . . . and cry. Howling sobs, and my chest is heaving hard as I hold myself up against the tiles.
Tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears of heartbreak.
I knew it was coming . . . deep down, all along, I knew it was coming, but holy fuck . . . it hurts.
I drop my shoulders in the back of my limo as I steel myself for what I’m about to do.
“Are you sure about this?” Alan asks as he opens the door.
“Yes. It is what it is; I’m not hiding any longer,” I say as I climb out of the car. I look up at the New York Police Department sign above the door, and I walk through.
The policeman at the front desk smiles. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, my name is Jameson Miles, and I would like to hand myself in.”
The policeman’s face falters. “You are wanted?”
“I was involved in a fistfight with a man named Gabriel Ferrara and then went to the hospital. I was unaware until late last night that you were looking for me. My apologies for taking so long to get here.”
The policeman smiles. “Thank you for coming in.” He opens a door at the side of reception. “Please come this way.”
Five hours later, I stand on the pavement outside the Ferrara building and look up to the top floors. I dial a number that I’ve had for years but have never called.
“Gabriel Ferrara,” the deep voice answers.
“It’s Jameson Miles. I’m out in front of your building. Get down here now.”
I hang up and inhale deeply. I lean my behind on my limo.
After having spent the last five hours in the police station, I am not in the mood to wait for this prick, but I need to say what I need to say, or it’s going to keep festering inside of me.
I told the police that my punch on Ferrara was self-defense and that they need to check the security footage. I’m not sure if it will stick, but it will give me some time. The police were actually okay and told me that seeing as he flicked the cigar at me first, I will probably only be charged with common assault and given a good behavior bond.
That, I can deal with.
Gabriel Ferrara appears through the front door, flanked by four security guards.
His eye is black and his cheekbone swollen. I smirk as I see his fucked-up face.
“You look like shit.”
“Yeah, well, a madman attacked me,” he mutters dryly.
I step forward as my anger resurfaces. “I know what you’re doing.”
He glares at me.
“You don’t scare me. It’s laughable how underhanded you have become.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Miles.”
“If you think that underhanded criminal behavior can take down Miles Media, you can think again,” I sneer.
He narrows his eyes.
“Miles Media has been the market leader for thirty years, and we will continue to dominate. Tell me, does your father know what you’ve stooped to?”
He lifts his chin in defiance. “Criminal behavior—what the hell are you talking about? That hit and run has left you delusional.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
We glare at each other; hate hangs in the air like poisonous pollution.
“I know what you’re doing,” I whisper.
“And as soon as I prove it, I’m going to fry your fucking ass in court.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
I stare at him as I remember how good it felt to hit this fucker. “Is your cheekbone broken?”
He glares at me, and I know it is.
“Let me tell you this—disrespect Emily Foster again, and next time . . . I won’t just break your cheekbone. I will kill you,” I sneer.
He raises his eyebrow as if surprised by my statement. “Is that a threat, Miles?”
“That’s a fucking promise,” I growl. “Leave her out of this.”
I turn and get into my limo, and we pull away. I watch Gabriel Ferrara storm back into the building, flanked by his security.
The day I bring that asshole down is going to be a sweet victory.
I run down the street in the dark. It’s just midnight. I haven’t been here in a while, and for some reason, tonight I need to be.
Emily’s apartment building.
I count the windows until I get to her apartment, and I stare up at it.
What’s she doing?
Is she missing me as much as I’m missing her?
I get a vision of ringing the doorbell and asking to come up, and we would hug, and I would feel happy . . . like I used to.
But then I remember the hurt I felt last week when she lied to me, the out-of-control feeling that I have whenever I’m with her.
The way my enemies are using her to get to me, the way she’s handing them the ammunition like candy.
And I know that nothing could bring me undone . . . except her.
She’s my only weakness.
And weakness is something that I can’t afford to have.
Not now, not ever.
I stare up at her apartment for a long time, and then with a heavy heart, I turn and begin the depressing run home.
I’ve never been so alone.
I stare at the coffee in front of me; the thought of drinking it turns my stomach. It’s been four days since I got the dreaded four-word text from Jameson.
Move on, I have.
Four days is a long time to walk around with a broken heart . . . it’s weak and barely clinging to life. I keep hoping and praying that he’s going to come back with a grand gesture and hold his arms out, and I run into them, and this nightmare will all be forgotten.
If only that were true.
My mind is clouded with memories of the man I thought I knew. The hole in my life seems so large, and I just don’t understand how you can fall so hard in love with someone in such a short period of time.
I should have stayed with Robbie, because in hindsight, Robbie was safe.
There was never a chance of him hurting me this deeply . . . but then, I wouldn’t have met Jameson and found out what it was like to have this all-consuming love inside of me. No matter how it ended, I wouldn’t trade that feeling for anything. Even if it was only mine for just a little while.
The only thing keeping me going at the moment is Molly and Aaron. They’ve been wonderful. Cheering me on from the sidelines, reminding me of why I came to New York in the first place. It would be so easy to run home right now with my tail between my legs.
“Are you going to eat the rest of that?” Molly gestures to my half-eaten sandwich.
I crinkle up my nose. “No, do you want it?”
“Just forget you ever met him, Em.” Aaron sighs. “No man is worth this heartache.”
I force out a weak smile. “He’ll come back, Aaron. I know he will.”
“You know you keep saying that, Em, but where is the fucking asshole?” Molly replies.
“He’s just . . .” I shrug as I try to articulate my thoughts. “Lost at the moment.”
“No, what he is is a self-absorbed fucking asshole,” she huffs. “Good riddance, I say; you dodged a bullet.”
There is absolutely no love lost between Aaron and Molly as far as Jameson is concerned. “Maybe.” I sigh sadly.
“Come on; we have to get back.” Aaron stands. “Lunch break is over.”
We make our way back out onto the street and are walking toward the Miles Media building when Molly stops on the spot. “Fuck,” she whispers.
“What?”
“Look.”
We all glance up and see Jameson walking down toward us with a woman. He’s in his customary navy suit and looking all immaculate, and they are deep in conversation.
“He’s at work today?” I frown as I stare at him. I didn’t even know he came back to work yet. He hasn’t seen us and is talking as he walks. “Who’s the woman?” I ask. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her.
Molly grabs my arm with a sense of urgency. “Come on; let’s go this way.” She tries to pull me into a shop.
“Who’s the woman?” I repeat as they get closer.
“Claudia Mason.”
The air leaves my lungs . . . his ex.
He’s with his ex?
I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears as the ground sways beneath me.
“Let’s go; we don’t want him to see us,” Molly urges as she grabs my arm once more. I pull out of her grip and stand strong.
As he gets to us, he glances up and sees me. His step falters, and then he clenches his jaw and doesn’t make eye contact.
Tears well in my eyes as I watch him walk past.
He stops with his back to me, and I hold my breath.
Turn around . . . turn around.
After a moment, he falls back into stride beside the woman and disappears up the street without looking back.
A searing pain lurches through my chest as I fight tears. I drop my head in sadness.
There’s my answer.
That’s it . . . we’re done.
It’s Friday night, and I slide down in the seat of my rental car as I peer across the darkened street. I’ve completely thrown myself into solving the case, if not for any reason other than to distract me. I’m outside Hayden’s apartment, and I know that I’m probably clutching at straws by being here, but what else am I going to do?
Crying and staring at the wall is getting old. A text comes through on my phone, and I glance down and see the letter J.
I read the text and nearly drop the phone in shock.
One last stop over.
JFK Airport. Sat, 8pm.
JFK Clubhouse Bar.
I need to see you.
J
xxx
He needs to see me . . . he needs to see me?
Hope blooms in my chest. Oh my God. I immediately call Molly.
“Hello,” she answers.
“Jameson just texted me. He wants to meet tomorrow night!” I blurt out in a rush.
“What?” she snaps. “Did you tell him to go fuck himself?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” I try to think of a perfect explanation. “Maybe seeing Claudia snapped him out of this, and I want to see him too, Moll. This is what I’ve been wanting all along.”
“Oh God, can you hear yourself? Why would you want to see him? He’s been a complete douchebag.”
“I know, but he’s been under so much stress, Molly. I just need to talk to him.”
“For the record, I think this is a bad idea.” She sighs.
I smile. She’s wrong . . . this is a great idea. I text him back.
See you there.
x
I smile goofily out the windshield and look over to see Hayden talking to that same girl who used to work at Miles Media.
Lara Aspin . . . something is up with her too. I want to know more about her; so far, I’ve been unable to dig up anything, not even an address. She finishes her conversation with Hayden and begins to walk down the street. My eyes flick between her and Hayden. Shit, what do I do?
I watch Hayden disappear into his building.
Well, I already know where Hayden lives. If I let her go, I may never find her again.
I really do need to know where she lives.
I watch her as she walks down the street. Damn it. I jump out of the car and cross the street and fall in behind her on the sidewalk.
She walks down the subway stairs, and I hesitate. It’s dark, and God knows where she’s going . . . shit.
I watch her disappear down the stairs, and I brace myself. Damn it. I have to follow her. We wait on the platform for a while, and then she gets onto a train, and I get on after her. I stand by the doors and stare out the window while I keep her in my peripheral vision.
Adrenaline is surging through my body, and I have to admit, this is actually kind of fun. I should have been a cop.
We go four stops, and then she gets up and stands by the door. The stop is Central Station, and I let out a sigh of relief—at least it’s safe there.
We get off the train, and I drop back so she doesn’t get suspicious. We walk, and we walk, and we walk . . . damn it, where is she going?
She disappears into a crowd, and I jump up to see if I can see her. I walk farther, and I can’t see her. She’s disappeared into thin air.
Damn it.
I turn and look back down the street we just came from. Where did she go?
I walk back a little way, and then I catch sight of her in a shop.
Thank God.
I duck in and then notice it’s a pawnshop. I pretend to look at something in the back as she talks to the man on the desk.
“Well, it’s not worth much,” he says.
“I would like five hundred dollars for it. It’s in perfect working order,” she replies.
“You’re dreaming. No way.”
I peer through a gap in a bookcase and see a MacBook. Shit . . . she’s selling her computer.
Why would she be selling a computer?
My mind begins to race as the two of them haggle over the price. The shop attendant wins in the end, and he hands over two hundred dollars. I watch her disappear out the door, and I wait for a moment and go to the desk.
“Hello.” I smile casually.
“Hey,” the overweight pawnshop man mutters as he counts his till up.
This may just be the craziest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done some pretty crazy things in my life. “I would like to buy that computer, please.”
He frowns as he glances up. “What one?”
I point to the one she just sold him.
“Nah, I haven’t cleaned it up yet. Go to the cabinet on the left, and find another one.”
“No, it has to be that one.”
“Not for sale yet. Come back in two days.”
If I come back in two days, it will be wiped. “Name your price,” I assert, feeling brave.
He stills, and his eyes come to mine. “A thousand dollars.” He raises an eyebrow in a silent dare.
“You just paid two hundred for it—are you crazy?” I stammer.
He shrugs and goes back to what he’s doing.
I stare at the computer on the desk, and I don’t know why, but my gut is telling me to buy it. “Damn it, okay, fine. As it is, right now, for a thousand dollars.”
He smiles a slimy grin. “Okay, honey.”
I hand him over my mother’s credit card, the one I have for emergencies . . . sorry, Mom.
I pay the thousand dollars and take the computer and walk out the front door.
My phone rings. Tristan’s name lights up the screen. Perfect timing.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Sorry I took so long to get back to you. That girl’s name is Lara Aspin, and get this—she used to work in accounts,” he blurts out.
“What does that mean?” I frown.
“She had access to the bank account details.”
“Oh my God, Tristan,” I whisper as I look around guiltily. “I just followed her on the train, and she sold her computer to a pawnshop, and I know this is crazy, but I just bought it for a thousand dollars.”
“What? You have it? You actually have her computer?”
I smile proudly. “Uh-huh.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to get you now.”
I walk through the airport with my heart in my throat. I’m pulling my small carry-on suitcase so that I look the part of a tired traveler . . . or perhaps I’m just trying to pretend to myself that this isn’t a bad idea.
Because I know it is; deep in my gut I know that I shouldn’t be playing this dangerous game with him. I should be sitting down and having a civilized grown-up conversation.
But desperation has brought out my weakness, and I’m hoping that tonight Jameson and I can talk . . . and he can apologize and beg for me to come back, and then I can punish him, and we can begin to get back on track.
I haven’t seen Claudia again, so I have no idea what is going on with her, but the fact that Jameson wanted to see me tonight tells me that it’s nothing.
I hope it’s nothing . . . God, I hope it’s nothing . . . stop it.
I duck into the bathroom to give myself one last pep talk. I reapply my red lipstick, Jameson’s personal favorite, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My long dark hair is out and wavy. I wanted to wear a dress but didn’t want to seem too eager, so I finally decided to wear black fitted capri pants and a black silk shirt with the top button strategically undone. My black lace bra is just peeking through if I move the right way. I’m wearing his favorite fragrance and think I look sexy without trying to be sexy . . . is that even a thing?
God knows. I guess I’ll soon find out.
Don’t be needy . . . don’t be whiny . . . and don’t be overdramatic, I remind myself. Be sexy and alluring . . . like I was when we first met.
Right, I can do this.
I drop my shoulders, take a deep breath, and steel myself for the night ahead. This is literally a make-or-break situation. I need to remind him why he fell in love with me in the first place . . . how the hell has he forgotten?
That in itself is an issue . . . I close my eyes in disgust. Stop overthinking this.
I walk down the corridor and into the Clubhouse Bar. It’s busy and bustling. I walk in and take a seat in the corner at a bench-seat table for two. If he wants to see me, then he can find me. I’m on a stopover and totally oblivious to anything around me.
I take out my laptop and open my emails.
“Can I get you a drink?” the waiter asks as he approaches my table.
“Yes, please.” I smile as I hand him my credit card. “A top-shelf margarita, please.”
He smiles and, with a cheeky wink, walks away. Damn it, that Jameson Miles has spoiled me. I seem to have an addiction to top-shelf shit, and it just rolls off my tongue a little too easy now.
I turn my attention back to read my emails and pretend that they’re fascinating.
They’re not.
And what I really want to be doing is giving this place the once-over with an eagle eye . . . is he here?
The waiter returns with my drink. “Here you are, a top-shelf margarita.” He places it down onto the table. “And the gentleman at the bar asked that I deliver these to you.” He places a large bowl of strawberries and a dipping bowl of hot chocolate on the table.
My eyes rise to where he gestures, and I see Jameson sitting at the bar. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a white shirt that I bought him. His dark hair is messed to perfection. Our eyes lock, and he raises his glass and then takes a sip.
My stomach rolls in excitement. He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.
“Thank you,” I reply to the waiter, completely distracted by the beautiful specimen at the bar.
I sip my margarita as I try to keep the goofy smile from my face, and I turn back to my emails to act uninterested.
Strawberries with hot chocolate; there’s no way to eat them without slurping them up and looking like an animal.
I smirk . . . maybe that’s what he wants?
Game on.
With my eyes locked onto my computer screen, I pick up a strawberry and dip it into the hot chocolate and lick it and then place it seductively in my mouth. I suck the chocolate and rub it back and forth over my lips.
I take a sip of my margarita and then repeat the move.
I smile to myself . . . what the actual hell am I doing? I’m in an airport bar when I’m not flying anywhere, pretending not to know someone while he watches me go down on a fucking strawberry. This really is beyond bizarre.
If Molly and Aaron could only see me now.
The waiter arrives with another margarita. “Compliments from your friend at the bar.”
“Thank you.” I keep my eyes down as I play the game and refuse to look at him.
Ten minutes later, I take the final sip of my margarita and allow my eyes to drift to the man at the bar; his dark eyes are on me, and heat blazes between us.
I know that look . . . I’m going to fuck you . . . so damn good.
I feel my arousal begin to thump, and with my eyes locked on his, I pick up a strawberry and lick it.
He stands as if summoned by my tongue. With our eyes locked, I suck, and he walks toward my table. “Mind if I take a seat?” his deep, sexy voice purrs.
“Not at all.” My eyes drop to the bulge in his pants, and I raise my eyebrow.
“Don’t judge.” He smiles as he falls into the bench seat beside me. “I just watched the best damn strawberry porn that I’ve ever seen.”
“Really?” I smirk. I feel the heat from his close proximity, and I have to fight not to lean toward him.
He holds out his hand. “I’m Jim.”
My heart free-falls from my chest, exactly like the first time. I take his hand, and electricity shoots up my arm like an electric shock. “Hi, Jim. I’m Emily.”
So we’re playing that game, are we? Pretending we don’t know each other. This really is like a stopover do-over. I’ll do whatever it takes to break the ice between us.
With his elbows resting on the table, he steeples his hands under his chin. His eyes dance with mischief. “Where are you flying to, Emily?”
“London.” I sip my drink. “You?”
“Dubai. My flight’s been delayed.”
“Mine too.”
With locked eyes, we both sip our drinks. The air is electric, and regardless of the love that I have for this man, there is no denying that the sexual chemistry we have is out of this world.
“Thanks for the drink.” I smile softly.
“You’re welcome.” His eyes are dark and hooded, and I can feel his arousal from here.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
“I’m a tour guide,” he replies without hesitation.
“Really? What kind of tours do you run?”
“Camping.”
I snort my drink up my nose as I giggle. “Oh.” I cough. “So . . . you’re the outdoor type?”
“Totally.” He sips his margarita. “I’m at one with nature.” He crosses his two fingers to show me just how close.
I try and fail to hide my broad smile. “That’s good to know. Cavemen are such a turn-on.”
His eyes dance with delight; he likes this game.
I do too.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“I’m a psychic.”
He bursts out laughing. Oh, it feels good to see him laugh again. “A psychic?” His eyes widen in surprise.
“Yes.”
“So . . . you read minds?”
“I do.”
“All right.” He looks around the bar and gestures to a woman with his drink. “Tell me what that woman’s saying over there.”
I look over and see an older woman who looks like she is scolding her husband as he drinks his beer. “She’s telling him that he had better hurry up and put on his compression socks before the flight and that he’s had enough. They won’t let him on the plane if he’s drunk.”
“Hmm.” He smirks as he looks around. “What about him?”
I look over to the man who is looking at his phone. “He’s googling prostitutes for his business trip.”
“And him?”
“Wondering if his wife is sleeping with her boss.”
His smile broadens. “You’re good.”
I cock my head. “I know.”
“And her?”
I look over at a girl staring at her phone with a worried look on her face.
“Googling fungal infections. She’s worried that she caught something from her wild and condomless Saturday night.”
His eyes dance in delight as he looks around the bar, and then his eyes come back to meet mine. “What about me?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Yes.”
Our eyes lock . . . shit, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be a drama queen tonight, and that is a surefire question to wind me up. I could go to town on what a jackass he’s been . . . and I will later. “Right now?” I ask.
“Yes.” His eyes are dark as he watches me.
“It’s good to see you.”
He gives me a slow, sexy smile and leans toward me. “It is.” He cups my face in his hand, and my heart stops. “Although that wasn’t all I was thinking.”
He smiles as if fascinated, our faces only millimeters apart. “Why don’t you tell me what else I was thinking?” His eyes drop to my lips.
“You were wondering what the chocolate on my lips tastes like,” I whisper. How am I supposed to string two words together when he’s looking at me like that?
In slow motion, he leans in and licks my open lips. My sex clenches in appreciation.
Oh God . . .
“Are you flirting with me, Jim?” I whisper.
He licks me again. “I am. How am I doing?”
Goose bumps scatter up my spine, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.”
“Just okay?”
I nod, breathless from his touch.
“What about when I do this?” In slow motion he kisses me; his strong tongue slides through my open mouth and tenderly caresses mine.
“That could probably work,” I murmur against his lips.
“And this?” His kiss deepens, and I feel my arousal waken from its dormant sleep.
I close my eyes as emotion rushes through me . . . this is not good. One kiss, and I’m about to burst into tears.
How could you treat me so badly?
Don’t be a wimp . . . I need to keep my emotions in check . . . at least for now.
Tomorrow is a different story, but tonight is about celebrating what we have with each other.
I pull out of his kiss. “I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, Jim, but I can assure you—picking up camping tour directors in an airport bar is not my style.” I sit back and straighten my shirt and sip my margarita.
He rolls his lips as if amused with the game and picks my hand up and brings it to his lips. He begins to kiss it, and then he turns it over and, with his strong tongue, licks the palm of my hand.
My sex clenches in appreciation . . . fuck. I’m losing control of this situation.
Fast.
I glance over and see two girls sitting near us, transfixed and watching him with their mouths hanging open.
What must we look like? A gorgeous man sitting here making out with my hand while I act totally uninterested. Act being the operative word.
“You’re making a scene,” I murmur as I watch him.
“I can’t help it,” he murmurs against my skin. “It’s been too long.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Fifteen days.” He kisses my hand again. “Fifteen long days.”
That’s how long we’ve been apart . . . he knows how long we’ve been apart to the day. He wants to break the ice between us too. He’s missed me; I know he has. Suddenly I don’t want to play hard to get. I want him . . . hard . . . and fast.
I pull my hand away from his lips. “Buy me another drink, and then perhaps I’ll put you out of your misery.”
His eyes flicker with arousal, and his hand immediately goes up as he summons the waiter. “Yes, sir.”
“Two—”
“Four,” I interrupt him. He frowns, probably deterred by the extra time it’s going to take to drink those.
“Four margaritas, please,” he replies to the waiter.
“Yes, sir.”
“Please make it fast,” he adds.
The waiter frowns at his apparent desperation. “Yes, sir, of course.” He rushes to the bar.
We stare at each other as electricity thrums between us—no words are needed. We both can feel this magnetic pull to each other; it’s too strong to deny.
“It really . . . is good to see you, Em,” he whispers.
An hour later we walk down the hotel corridor, hand in hand. We are both quiet, lost in our own thoughts.
My heart is beating so fast, and I know what’s about to happen . . . I’m looking forward to what’s about to happen.
He opens the door and leads me into the penthouse. I look around and am instantly reminded of who I’m with. It’s easy for me to forget his wealth, but it never goes away. The door closes behind us, and he turns me to him. We stare at each other, and then he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight as he puts his head into the crook of my neck. He holds me and holds me . . . as if scared to let me go.
The love between us is palpable—so much emotion . . . so much regret—and I find myself tearing up.
I want to blurt out that I love him, that he hurt me, and that I’m angry, but I want to let the moment just be. Let the feelings between us speak for themselves; words seem irrelevant to what’s between us.
He pulls back, and his eyes search mine. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers.
I cup his face in my two hands, and I kiss him long and slow and just how he likes it.
He smiles against my lips as he slowly unbuttons my shirt and throws it to the side. He takes off my bra and cups my breasts. His thumbs dust back and forth over my hardened nipples. Our lips are locked, and he undoes my pants and slides them down and takes them off.
He drops to his knees, and I hold my breath as he slides my panties down my legs and takes them off.
He leans in and inhales my sex deeply; his eyes close in pleasure as he kisses me there.
Oh . . . I’ve missed him.
I think back to the first night we had together on our stopover, and it was so different to this. His touch back then was filled with lust; his touch now is filled with adoration and love.
He lifts my leg over his shoulder and licks me in my most private part, the one that nobody but he knows. My hands instinctively go to the back of his head.
This is insane. I haven’t touched him once, and he’s on his knees in front of me, completely dressed . . . having the time of his life.
His tongue finds a rhythm, and my body begins to move by itself, guiding his tongue just where.
I begin to shudder, and I close my eyes to try and block him out. He’s been touching me for all of four minutes, and I’m about to come . . . hold it.
My knees go weak, and I shudder against him, and I feel him smile into me. He laps me up and lays me on the bed. He arranges me how he wants me and spreads my legs open for his gaze. “So . . . fucking perfect,” he whispers to himself.
With urgency, he tears his shirt over his head and slides his jeans down. His cock hangs heavy and hard between his legs.
He’s so beautiful . . . the perfect male specimen.
I smile up at him, and then he goes to his pocket and takes out a condom. Uneasiness fills me. “What are you doing?”
“I want you more than once, and I don’t want to lose the sensitivity.”
I frown as I watch him roll it on . . . that’s weird; in the past he always made me roll them on him as if he was unable to.
He lies beside me on the bed and runs his fingers through my hair as he looks down at me. I can’t read him tonight at all. He seems . . . intense.
“You’re seeming very sentimental tonight, Mr. Miles,” I whisper.
“Maybe I am.”
I reach out and cup his face in my hand. He seems so lost. “Are you all right?”
“Tonight I am.” He leans down and kisses me, and I can feel the emotion behind it. It’s as if he’s channeling all his love through his lips, and I lose all coherent thought.
He lies over me, and our bodies take on an agenda of their own as they writhe together.
Our kiss turns frantic, and he lifts one of my legs and slides in deep. I feel the stretch of his possession; there’s no forgetting his size. It’s unapologetic.
We both moan in pleasure, and he slides out and slowly back in. I’m wet, so wet, and the sound of my arousal hangs in the air.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Emily,” he whispers as he loses control and slams in hard, knocking the air from my lungs.
And then we’re hard at it. The bed is hitting the wall with force; our eyes are locked on each other’s . . . silent . . . and in awe. This is a higher level of frequency.
Our bodies were made to fit together. We were made to fit together.
He screws up his face as if in pain. “I can’t hold it, babe,” he pants.
I smile. I love that he can’t hold it. “Let go,” I breathe against his lips. “We have all night. Give me everything.”
I roll over and feel the dull ache deep inside, and I wince.
Oh man . . . my body is wrecked.
Jameson Miles fucked me all night long. Hard and every which way, and today I’m going to pay for it. I turn toward him. He’s lying on his side, perched on his elbow, watching me. “Hi.” I smile softly, embarrassed by what he must have seen.
“Hi.” He leans in and kisses me before taking me in his arms and holding me tight.
“I’m sore,” I whisper.
“That makes two of us.” He smirks.
I close my eyes against his chest, and we lie in peaceful bliss for another half hour, dozing.
I get up to go to the bathroom and notice the trash can full of condoms . . . hmm, he wore condoms all night. I didn’t notice at the time.
I get back into bed beside him and snuggle back against his chest. “Why did you wear condoms last night?”
I feel his body stiffen beneath me, and I instantly know it was purposeful. He stays silent.
“Jim?” I frown as I sit up.
“Don’t.” He goes to pull me back down onto his chest. “Let’s just have a nice morning together.”
I stare at him. “Why would you wear condoms when I know how much you hate them?”
He exhales heavily as if annoyed and gets out of bed. “I don’t want any accidents.”
“What?”
He exhales heavily as if frustrated.
I sit up. “You think I would trap you by getting pregnant?”
He rolls his eyes.
“What the hell?” I snap as I jump out of bed. “Are you serious?”
“We’re not together, Emily. I would have to be a fucking idiot to not take precautions.”
My face falls. “What was last night?”
His eyes hold mine. “It was goodbye.”
“What?” I can feel the tears of shock welling in my eyes.
“Don’t be upset,” he stammers.
“Don’t be upset?” I cry as I begin to lose control. “You summoned me here to meet you with absolutely no intention of us getting back together?”
He stares at me.
“Is that true?” I yell.
“I’m not the man for you, Emily,” he replies calmly, and I know that this is a practiced speech.
I frown as the walls begin to close in around me. “What?” I whisper.
“You’re in love with Jim.”
I angrily swipe the tears as they roll down my cheeks.
“I’m Jameson. Jim doesn’t exist, Emily. He’s a figment of your imagination, the man you want me to be.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I cry.
“You’re better off without me.”
“If this is about Jake—” I stammer.
“This isn’t about Jake, although I’m fucking furious with you for lying to me.”
“I swear to you that nothing happened,” I cry.
“Then why?” I whisper. “I don’t understand. We belong together, Jay.”
“I can’t.” He closes his eyes and pauses for a moment as if steeling himself to push the words past his lips. “I don’t want marriage and babies. I don’t want the same things as you. I’m not cut out to do normal, Emily. I’m married to my job. It will never change. I’ve thought long and hard about this.”
I step back from him as horror dawns. I can hear my own heartbeat in the silence.
“I will always love you,” he whispers.
I stare at him through tears . . . what the fuck is happening right now?
He brushes past me and goes into the bathroom, and the door closes. I stare at a piece of carpet on the floor, shocked to my core. After the beautiful night we had together . . . this is how he treats me?
He reappears fully dressed, and his eyes find mine. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“If you walk out that door now, we are over forever,” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “I know.” He steps forward and kisses me softly as he cups my face in his hands. Our faces screw up against each other’s. “This is for the best; another man can make you happier.”
I step back, furious. “Don’t you dare throw that shit at me.”
“Do you want a lift or not?”
“Go to hell,” I spit.
His haunted eyes hold mine. “I’m already there.” He turns and walks out the door. It clicks quietly behind him.
I sob out loud into the silence as I hold my poor heart.
