The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(4)

“Who?”

“The Uber.”

I frown.

“You ordered it . . . right?”

“Of course I did,” I snap.

How the fuck do I do that?

“I’m not catching an Uber,” I announce as I go up onto my toes while looking around at the street. “I’m catching a cab. I support old school.”

“Oh . . .” Elliot smirks. “Good for you.”

I see the moment of horror as the doormen all notice me. “Mr. Miles.” They run over. “How can we help you, sir?”

“I . . .”

Elliot cuts me off. “He’s fine, thank you.” He smiles at them. “Thank you, anyway.”

The doormen slowly go back inside, and I glance over at Elliot, who is watching me. “Go on, then,” he says.

“Go on what?”

“Catch a cab.”

“Do you honestly think I can’t get a cab on my own?”

“When was the last time you did it?”

“When was the last time you went to the hospital for being beat up?” I narrow my eyes.

Elliot holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying . . .” He walks back inside, and I watch him as he disappears into the elevator.

I stare after him, and determination fills me. I will catch my own fucking cab. I walk out onto the street and see a cab coming down the road. I put my arm up.

It speeds past with a passenger in the back seat.

Hmm . . .

Another cab comes, and I put my arm up. He drives straight past me. “Fucker,” I call after him.

For five minutes I stand on the side of the road. No cabs are stopping.

What in the hell is wrong with them? Don’t they know I have somewhere to go?

This is discrimination.

I hear a voice. “Mr. Miles.” I turn to see that Hans has parked the limo. “Is everything all right, sir?”

“Umm . . .” I glance around. No cab is stopping, and I could be here for eternity. I peek inside to make sure Elliot has gone. “Take me home, please.”

Hans gives me a kind smile and opens the back door for me, and I climb in. He pulls out into the traffic.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask him.

“Elliot called me.”

“Elliot called you?” I fume.

“Yes, said that I needed to rescue you.”

Asshole.



“I had a wonderful time.” She swoons.

“Me too.” I fake a smile. It’s all I can do not to check my watch as we stand on the street saying goodbye. How long is this going to take?

This has been the worst date in all history.

Boring . . .

So fucking boring.

Carly is beautiful, smart, and sweet, with a body to die for. She’s everything I should want. And yet, as usual when I’m out with a girl one on one, I’m bored as fuck. I even considered asking the waiter to poison my food so that I’d have a legitimate reason to leave.

Tristan’s and Jameson’s words from today run through my mind for the millionth time.

You are thirty-one years old and never had a girlfriend. You take nice girls on token dates to try and kid yourself into believing that they stand a chance, and you only fuck women in pairs so that there is no chance you can fall for one of them.

Carly frowns up at me. “Is everything okay?”

I stare down at her looking up at me, all kiss-me-like. “I’m just . . . I have a headache. I’m sorry, I . . .” I cut myself off before I lie to her more.

“That’s okay.” She smiles. “Some people just don’t click, do they?”

Intriguing . . . I click with everyone.

“Do you click with most people?” I ask her.

“I do.”

“Why do you think we didn’t click?”

She shrugs. “Lots of reasons.”

“Name them.”

She laughs. “I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say.”

“Trust me, I do.”

“Well, for a start, you’re too perfect.”

I frown. “What?”

Her face falls. “Look . . . I didn’t mean to offend. That came out wrong.”

“No, please . . . ,” I reassure her. “Explain it to me. How can I get better if I don’t know what’s wrong with me?”

“You don’t need to get better. You just need to . . .” She pauses as if choosing her words wisely. “You have no substance.”

“What?” I put my hand on my chest. “Me? No substance?” I gasp, shocked. “I am high-quality fucking substance!”

She laughs. “That’s the problem. You will never understand what I mean, Christopher, and it’s okay—you don’t need to. It’s not relevant to your life.”

I frown as I stare at her. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Your life has been so perfect that you’ve never had to dig deep to find out who you really are.”

I put my weight onto my back foot, affronted that this is the second time today I am hearing this. “I disagree. Why do people think that only hardship builds character? Why would I have to dig deep to find out who I am when I already know?”