Emily
I close down my computer and pack up my desk and make my way to the elevator. I’m one of the last to leave the office. It’s been a long day, but I achieved a lot. It’s the weirdest thing—blocking Jameson yesterday was the most satisfying thing I’ve done since I murdered his roses.
In some kind of sick and twisted way, being mean to him is releasing some of my anger. Hurting him is like the best kind of therapy. I must really be messed up at the moment; either that, or payback is just surprisingly satisfying. I watched the movie John Wick last night, and I smiled the whole way through it . . . that in itself says a lot about my current headspace.
I take the elevator and walk out onto the street. It’s dark and cold, and I pull my heavy coat around my shoulders for protection.
“Emily,” I hear a voice from behind me.
I stop on the spot . . . shit. Jameson . . . what’s he doing here? I put my head down and keep walking.
“Emily,” he repeats.
I spin toward him. “What, Jameson?” I snap.
“Can I talk to you?”
“No. Go away.” I turn away from him and start to storm to my bus stop.
He follows me as I walk. “I just want five minutes of your time.”
I stay silent.
He runs to catch up with me. “I know I fucked up . . . bad.”
I glare at him as I imagine punching his stupid, handsome face. I get a vision of his head snapping back as I connect the hit.
“Please,” he stammers as he runs after me. “I need to explain why.”
“I’m not interested.” I march forward.
He follows me for a while longer as if not sure what to say. “I’m going to follow you until you talk to me. Can we get a drink or something?”
“No.”
“Dinner?”
“Go. Away. Jameson.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he stammers as he runs to keep up with me.
“You already did. Get out of my face.”
He runs in front of me and walks backward facing me. “I mean, I’m not leaving you again . . . ever.”
“Then it’s going to be a one-sided relationship because I want nothing to do with you. Ever again.”
His face falls. “Don’t say that.”
A man runs into him as he walks backward. “Watch out,” the man snaps as he brushes past.
“I just want ten minutes of your time,” he stammers.
“No.” We arrive at my bus stop, and I stand in line. He stands next to me.
“Alan can come and get us, you know?” He looks at the long line of people. “We don’t have to catch the bus.”
I glare at him, unimpressed. Spoiled brat.
He smiles. “You’re still gorgeous when you’re angry . . . you know that?” he says loudly, and other people in the bus line begin to look over.
Red steam shoots from my ears at him making a scene. “Jameson, go the fuck home,” I whisper angrily.
“No.” He folds his arms in front of him like a petulant teenager. “I’m not leaving without you.”
People around us are all watching. I take out my Kindle and open it . . . anything to block him out.
“What are you reading?”
I remain silent as I pretend to read.
Damn him . . . he thinks he can turn up here and demand to see me . . . he can kiss my ass.
“I’m reading a good book at the moment,” he continues.
I keep reading.
“It’s called . . .” He pauses as he thinks for a moment. “It’s called ‘how to get your girl back after a midlife crisis.’”
The girls behind me snicker.
I twist my lips to try and hide my amusement. Don’t get fucking cute now, asshole.
“Chapter one is called ‘bus duty,’” he continues.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Yes, it says to follow her to the bus stop and keep talking aimlessly until she gets sick of the sound of your voice and has to talk to you . . . even if that first word is shut up . . . that’s something, right?”
I flick the page of my Kindle over as I stop myself from playing into his hands and saying the words shut up. The girls behind me snicker again. I glare at my Kindle. I won’t be surprised if the screen breaks under the pressure.
“What does chapter two say?” the girl behind me asks as the bus arrives and pulls to a stop. I jump on.
“Get on the bus,” I hear him say from behind me.
I walk on and take a window seat at the back, and he comes and sits beside me.
Are you kidding me?
“This is a great seat,” he whispers. “I like it.”
“Stop talking to me,” I growl.
“I can’t. You see, I’ve finally worked it out. And I need you to listen to me so that we can sort this mess out.”
I stare out the window.
“I mean, how can we fix this if you won’t speak to me?”
“We won’t. That’s the point,” I mutter dryly.
“Don’t say that, FB.”
I glare at him as a glow of red covers the sky . . . don’t fight; don’t give him the satisfaction.
He smiles sweetly, totally oblivious to my rage. “It’s so good to see you.”
I roll my eyes and look back out the window . . . don’t talk to him . . . not one word . . . don’t give in to him.
“God . . . I’ve missed you, Em,” he whispers.
Something inside of me breaks.
“You don’t get to say that,” I snap.
“But it’s true.”
“Shut up, Jameson. The time for talking is over.” The bus pulls up to my stop, and I get up and brush past him. He runs after me as I storm up the pavement.
“I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
I keep walking.
“I’ll wait out here all night.”
I keep walking.
“Em, come on,” he sighs.
“How can you be so cold?” he demands.
I turn like the devil himself. “Don’t you dare call me cold, you hypocrite. You’re the only fucking cold one here.”
“There she is.” He smiles as if proud of himself for getting me to say something.
My face falls at my own weakness. “Jameson,” I whisper.
“Babe.” He grabs my two hands in his. “Please talk to me. I miss you, and I know you miss me too. I need to make this right between us; we can make it through this.”
Tears well in my eyes at his touch, and I’m angry with myself for letting him get this close. “I can’t.” I brush past him.
“Please, Em,” he calls from behind me. “I’ll beg.”
I keep walking.
“Do you want me to get on my knees right here? Because I will.”
I keep walking, and he runs up behind me. “Tell me how to make this right? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
I turn to him. “Move on . . . I have.”
His face falls. “Okay . . . I deserved that.”
“I didn’t.” I push through tears as I brush past him and keep walking.
“I know, Em,” he calls. “I’m so sorry. That guy . . . that guy was crazy to let you go. I was out of my fucking head.”
I get to my building, and he comes up behind me as I open the door with my key. He slides his arm around my waist from behind and pulls me close. “Please,” he murmurs into my hair. “I love you.”
I close my eyes in pain at the feel of his touch . . . I miss him.
I pull out of his grip. “Don’t touch me,” I spit. “What makes you think you can come back here and say that?”
His eyes search mine. “Because you love me . . . and two wrongs don’t make a right. If you don’t let me make this right between us out of stubbornness, which is a real possibility . . .” He pauses as he tries to get the wording right. “We will both regret it forever; you know we will.”
I stare at him for a moment as his words roll around in my head. I turn and walk into my building and close the door behind me. He watches me through the glass.
I hit the elevator button, and the doors open straightaway. I dive in and hit the buttons to close the doors as my tears well in my eyes.
Bastard.
I walk out of my building right at eight o’clock in the morning. I haven’t slept much, and I keep seeing Jameson’s sad face when I left him last night. I hate that I care about him. His words kept playing over and over in my head all night. I hate that he said them. I hate that they made sense.
“Because you love me . . . and two wrongs don’t make a right. If you don’t let me make this right between us out of stubbornness, which is a real possibility . . . we will both regret it forever; you know we will.”
God, what a mess.
“Good morning,” I hear a chirpy voice from behind me.
Jameson is standing beside my door in his navy suit, looking all dapper and not at all discouraged like he should be.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” He smiles as he takes my gym bag from me and puts it over his shoulder. “Are we catching the bus today?”
I look at him deadpan. “I’m catching the bus. What you’re doing . . . I have no idea.”
“I’m following you around until you agree to have dinner with me.”
“It’s not happening, Jameson.”
“Okay,” he says as he begins to walk to the bus stop. “I’ll just be following you around for forever, then.” I stare at him, and he gives me a slow, sexy smile. “You look beautiful today.”
“Stop it.”
“No.”
I walk to the bus stop with him beside me. I’m staying silent, and he is jabbering.
“Did you run this morning?” he asks. “I did.”
I stare at him.
“I’m actually quite fit at the moment—all this heartache has me running at record speed,” he continues.
That makes two of us . . . I keep my mouth tightly closed. I don’t want him to know that I’ve been angry running too.
We catch the bus. I’m silent, and he’s carrying on like we are long-lost best friends.
“Do you want to go camping this weekend?” he asks as he opens his paper.
“No. I’m going to my parents this weekend,” I reply flatly.
“Oh.” His face falls. “Well, that’s going to be uncomfortable.”
“What is?”
“When I follow you to your parents.”
“You are not coming to my parents,” I scoff.
“Watch me.” His eyes dance with mischief. “You won’t talk to me; I’m going to keep following you until you do.”
“I don’t want you to follow me. In fact, I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“No need to be snarky,” he says casually as he turns the page of his paper. “It’s unbecoming.”
I glare at him. “You know what’s unbecoming?” I whisper angrily. “Jerks who break girls’ hearts and think that they can snap their fingers and get her back at the drop of a hat.”
He smirks down at me. “Yes, I have to agree. Although if they are meant to be together, and he was under the impression that he was doing the right thing by her at the time . . .”
“Oh, please,” I huff. “Can you hear yourself?”
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
“No.”
The bus pulls up at my stop, and he stands and grabs my gym bag and puts it back over his shoulder. I watch him walk up the aisle of the bus to get off, and I smile to myself. Has he ever caught a bus before?
Idiot.
We walk up the road in silence, and I turn and catch sight of the limo parked across the street. Alan is leaning up against it, and he smiles and waves over at me.
“Alan knows you’re here?” I whisper in mortification.
“Everyone knows I’m here,” he says casually as he hands my bag over. “It’s no secret that I want you back. I have stated my intentions loud and clear.”
I stare at him.
“See you this afternoon.”
“Jameson,” I sigh.
“I’m not giving up on us, Em . . . ever.” He smiles softly. “We were made for each other.”
I scratch my head in frustration.
“Have a nice day.” He watches me with his hands in his pockets, keeping a safe distance.
“Bye.” I turn and walk into my building. My phone beeps a text. It’s from an unknown number.
Have a good day.
This is my burner phone
in case of an emergency.
Jameson. He’s got another phone, one that I haven’t blocked.
I get into the elevator and find myself smirking at the ground.
Stop it . . . he’s an asshole . . . never forget that.
It’s three o’clock, and I’m finishing a report for publication this week. I love this job. I mean, not as much as I loved Miles Media, but that ship has sailed—may as well make the most of it. The staff are all really friendly and nice and have welcomed me with open arms.
“Delivery for Emily Foster,” I hear.
I look up and see a man walking through the floor with a white box. What the hell?
“Oh, she’s in that office over there,” I hear someone say.
He knocks on my door. “Are you Emily Foster?”
“Yes.”
“I have a delivery for you.” He hands over the white box.
I take it from him. “Thank you.”
“Um.” He smirks, shuffling awkwardly in place. “It’s from the Kung Fu Panda.”
“What?”
“I was told to tell you that the Kung Fu Panda sent it.”
I try to hide my smile and fail miserably. “Thank you.” He leaves, and I open the box to find a huge caramel cheesecake and a small white card.
Cheesecake for my cheesecake.
xoxoxo
I close the box and smirk. He’s an idiot, and I’m not a cheesecake . . . if he thinks he can weasel his way back into my good book by being cute, he has another thing coming.
Kung Fu Panda . . . where the hell does he get this shit?
A girl from the office next door pops her head around the corner. “What’s that?”
“Cheesecake, want some?”
“Hell yeah, I’ll get the plates.” She disappears to the kitchen.
I stare at my phone for a moment. Should I text him and say thank you?
No, this is why he did it—to get a reaction. He knows I’ve got good manners and would never receive a gift without thanking him. He’ll be waiting for my call.
Well, too bad for the stupid Kung Fu Panda. More fool him.
He created this beast; he can live with my rudeness. He’s in the freezer.
At six o’clock in the evening, I make my way downstairs. I may have fixed my hair and applied some lipstick . . . not that I’ll ever admit to it.
I walk out of the building and out onto the street to see Jameson standing and leaning up against the wall. He’s wearing his gray suit, the one that I love. His dark hair hangs over his forehead, and his chiseled jaw does things to my insides. He smiles broadly and pushes off the wall when he sees me coming. How long has he been standing there? “Good afternoon, Ms. Foster.”
“I didn’t know that you knew kung fu,” I say as I walk past him.
“Oh, I do,” he says as he falls into step behind me. “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know. Did I tell you that I’m becoming an extreme sportist?”
I keep silent as I walk. It’s hard to keep a straight face when he’s in this mood.
“Yes, I thought I might start hiking up mountains and camping there and stuff. Making fire with my bare hands and whatnot.”
I smirk as I walk in front of him, unable to help it. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. You see, I’m becoming one with nature.”
“You. One with nature. I’d like to see that,” I mutter dryly.
“Okay, we can hike up a mountain this weekend. How’s Mount Kosciuszko?”
“I’m busy,” I say as I keep walking.
“Oh, that’s right; we are going to your parents this weekend.”
“You’re not coming, Jameson.”
“Your mother said I could when I spoke to her earlier.”
I spin on the spot toward him. “You called my mother?”
“No, but I will if you don’t have dinner with me.” He smiles hopefully.
I stare at him. “Jameson, if you think the Kung Fu Panda sending me a cake and calling me a cheesecake can reverse the damage you have done, you are seriously deluded.”
He takes my two hands in his. “I don’t, Em, but please . . . just let me say what I need to say.”
I stare at him.
“And then if you don’t want to see me again, I’ll stop following you.” His eyes hold mine. “We need to talk about this; you know we do.”
I roll my eyes.
“Please?” He bats his eyelashes to try and be cute; it’s annoying that he is.
“Fine. You have ten minutes.” I sigh.
“Where do you want to go?” He smiles.
“Wherever is easiest.”
“Okay.” He looks around. “How about that Italian restaurant across the street?”
“Fine.” He tries to take my hand, and I snatch it away. “You have got to be kidding,” I snap.
“Jesus, calm down,” he mutters.
I follow him across the street and into the restaurant, and we take a seat at the back of the restaurant. It’s small and darkened with candles on the tables. Red tablecloths decorate the tables. It’s nothing like the usual upmarket Italian that he takes me to, but it will have to do.
“Can I get you some drinks?” the waiter asks.
Jameson smirks and gestures to me. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
I stare at him for a moment and open my menu. “All right, we’ll have a bottle of the Henschke Hill of Grace, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The waiter disappears out the back to the bar.
Jameson’s eyes come to me, and he smiles softly and takes my hands over the table.
“Do you know how much I’ve missed you?” he whispers.
I stare at him in some kind of strange detached state.
“Did you miss me?”
Instantly I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I stay silent as I battle the lump in my throat. I hate that he makes me feel so weak and vulnerable. I pull my hands out of his grip. I need to create some distance between us.
“Em.” He frowns. “I . . .” It’s clear that he has no idea what to say. “When I saw that image of you kissing Jake—”
“Jameson,” I stammer.
He holds his hand up to signify silence, and I close my mouth. “Something snapped inside of me. I was so thrown that it upset me so deeply that I . . .” He frowns as he remembers it. “I was furious—firstly with you, but then with myself.”
“I was going through so much shit at work, and the very last person on earth that I thought would lie to me . . . was you.”
I drop my head in shame.
“And then when I calmed down after a few days and realized that you had been set up, the future mapped itself out to me.”
I frown.
“There is always going to be someone like Ferrara who is prepared to step on you to hurt me.”
My heart drops.
“And I don’t want that for you.”
“Jay,” I whisper sadly.
“I don’t want you to be married to a workaholic who has to travel all the time and is stressed out of his head. I don’t want you to have to remind your husband not to drink too much or stop being rude to people because he’s too busy to care. I don’t want you to have to remind your husband that he’s neglecting you.”
“Your bottle of wine.” The waiter appears out of nowhere. He opens it and pours us both a glass.
“Thank you,” I reply. My eyes go back to meet Jameson’s.
The waiter leaves us alone.
“I don’t want you to come second to Miles Media. I don’t want you to ever come second to anything.”
“But—”
“Let me finish, please,” he demands.
I sit back in my chair, annoyed that he wants to speak first.
“The thing is, if you’re with me—married to me—your life is going to be all those things.”
The lump in my throat gets big.
“I love you too much to let you live that life, Em.”
He’s ending it again. My eyes fill with tears.
He takes my hand over the table and lifts it to his mouth and gently kisses it. “Don’t cry. I hate that you’ve cried over me.”
I blink to try and get rid of these stupid tears.
“I made a decision to protect you from that life. To push you away. Because I knew that one day, you would eventually be unhappy . . . and I just can’t live with that.”
“It wasn’t your decision to make,” I whisper angrily.
He frowns. “My job is to look after you and make the hard calls, ones that you can’t make for yourself.”
“Jameson.” I stare at him through tears.
“But something happened while I was away from you.” He leans in and cups my face in his hand. “I realized that I didn’t want any of those things either.”
My eyes search his.
“I can’t live without you, Em. I’ve been so fucking miserable that it’s been unbearable.”
He leans in and kisses me softly; his eyes search mine as he dusts his thumb over my bottom lip. “If you don’t want me as I am now, I’ll resign from Miles Media immediately, and we can move to bumfuck nowhere and, I don’t know, live in a fucking tent somewhere.”
I smirk. “You idiot,” I whisper.
He smiles as he holds my face in his hand.
“I love you how you are. I don’t want you to change anything.”
“You do?”
“But I don’t . . .” I pause as I try to articulate my feelings. “How can I move on from how you’ve treated me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t just pretend that this hasn’t happened, Jameson. You’ve hurt me too deeply.”
“I know; I don’t want you to,” he stammers. “But can’t we just . . .” He shrugs. “Start dating again? Take it slow.”
I stare at him as confusion fills me.
“I know it’s going to take time to get back to where we were, but we have the rest of our lives. We can date and get to know each other properly this time.”
I sit back as I consider his proposal, and I sip my wine. “You know, I always imagined that I would find my dream guy and fall in love, and then it would come to this big cheesy climax.”
He scrunches up his nose. “Cheesy climax? That just sounds wrong.”
I giggle as I imagine what he must be thinking about. “No, I meant proposal.”
“You want a cheesy proposal?” He frowns. “Wouldn’t you want a romantic proposal?”
“Not really. My point is, this isn’t how I imagined things would go.”
“Me neither.” He takes my hands in his. “Far from it. I’m officially an idiot. Give me another chance, Em. I won’t fuck it up, I promise.”
I stare at him.
“I love you; you love me.” He shrugs. “We can work through this, and then hopefully in time, you can forget it ever happened, and you can live happily ever after with an outdoorsy Kung Fu Panda.” He smiles hopefully.
“You’re an idiot, Mr. Miles.”
“Who’s hopelessly in love with you.” He leans over and kisses me softly, and I feel my resistance fade. “I love you, cheesecake,” he whispers.
“Don’t call me fucking cheesecake.”
He chuckles against my lips. “Too far?”
“Way too far.”
