The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(103)

What feels like ten minutes later, the car comes to a halt and switches off. I glance up. We are out in front of my apartment building. Huh?

Alan opens the door.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Mr. Miles instructed me to drop you here this morning.”

“What . . . why?”

“He suggested that you have the day off.” He gestures with his hand for me to get out of the car.

“Huh?” I frown. “What’s going on, Alan?”

“I’m not sure, but Mr. Miles said that he didn’t want you to come into the office and that he will be in touch.”

I screw up my face. “Be in touch—what does that mean? Why can’t I go to the office? I’m confused.”

“You need to get out of the car, Emily,” he asserts.

“What?”

He gestures again with his hand, and I get out in a huff.

“Has something happened?” I stammer as I brush past him. “Is Jameson all right?”

“You need to speak to him, Emily.”

“Fine, I will,” I snap as I take out my phone and dial his number.

“Goodbye, Emily,” Alan says before getting into the limo and quickly pulling out.

Jameson’s phone rings out. I call again . . . it goes straight to voice mail. He’s switched it off.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, annoyed.

I go to call Sammia, his PA, but then realize that it’s only eight o’clock—she isn’t even at work yet.

What the hell is going on? I cross the street and half walk, half run to the corner paper stall. I see the front page of the Gazette, and the blood drains from my face as I see a half-page picture of Jake and me kissing.

“Dear God,” I whisper. I read the story.

Jameson Miles—Media Guru’s Fall from Grace In what appears to be the final nail in Jameson Miles’s media coffin, his fiancée, Emily Foster, has been having a secret affair. The two have been spotted in various locations and were snapped holidaying in Italy two months ago. Leaked bank statements released today prove that Jameson Miles has been embezzling money and transferring it to an offshore account. The board is expected to fire him as CEO of Miles Media today, and criminal charges will be laid. Looks like Emily Foster jumped ship just in time.

What?

My hand goes over my mouth in horror.

Oh my God, poor Jameson. “I’m not his fiancée, you fucking idiots,” I sneer. “How many things can you possibly fuck up in one story?”

I turn and begin to storm back to my apartment as I redial his number with a sense of urgency.

“Hey,” the paper man calls out to me. “You didn’t pay for that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologize as I rush back to pay. “I was distracted. Thank you.”

Jameson’s phone goes straight to voice mail once more.

What do I do? What do I do? My shoulder slams into a man as he walks past.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” he calls.

“Sorry,” I stammer.

I dial Tristan’s number.

“Hi, Em.”

“Tristan, what the hell is going on?” I cry.

“We’re in meetings; I’ll call you later.”

“What?”

He hangs up.

“Ahhh,” I cry. My eyes fill with tears of frustration.

He wouldn’t believe it. Surely, he knows it’s not true . . . but there’s a photo as evidence.

I dial Molly’s number.

“Hey, chick, do you want a coffee?” she asks chirpily.

“Molly,” I cry in relief that someone answers their damn phone. “Oh my God, it’s all lies.” I stop on the spot on the busy sidewalk and move to the side up against the building to talk.

“What’s wrong?”

“The Gazette,” I stammer. “Google the Gazette. There’s an image on the front page of me kissing Jake, and it says we are having an affair.”

“What?”

“Somebody must have been following me, or . . .” I shake my head as I try and think of a logical explanation. “What the fucking hell is going on?” I whisper angrily.

“Holy shit.” She pauses. “I see it. Wait . . . when the fuck did you kiss Jake?”

“He kissed me last night,” I stammer. “I didn’t kiss him back, for fuck’s sake. Do you—”

“Hang on; I’m reading,” she interrupts me.

I put my hand over my face as I wait for her to read.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

“Alan brought me back to my apartment and told me not to come into work today.”

“What?”

“He said that Mr. Miles will contact me later.”

“Well, what did Jameson say?” she asks.

“He won’t answer his phone. I called Tristan, but he said they are in meetings, and he’ll call me later.”

“Holy . . . fucking . . . shit. This is bad.”

“You think?” I cry.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. What do I do?”

“Well, if Jameson told you to stay home, maybe you should.”