The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(105)

“I have to go. Stay out of sight. I don’t need to worry about you too.”

“What?” I stammer.

“I’m too busy.”

“Don’t go,” I plead. “Jay, we need to talk about this. I’ll come to your office now.”

“Don’t you dare,” he sneers.

My eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“There are a million and fucking one people in my office right now, and I don’t have the fucking time to deal with your shit,” he growls.

I cringe . . . God, I’ve never heard him so angry. “Will I see you tonight?” I whisper.

“Goodbye, Emily.” The line goes dead.

I drop to the couch and stare at the wall . . . a sick sense of dread begins to sink in . . . he believes it.

Holy fuck.

Eight o’clock that evening

I sit on the lounge and listen to the sound of a movie as it plays on the television.

I can’t watch the news. I had to turn it off. It’s going on and on about the evidence building against Jameson and the embezzlement case.

My mind is miles away. Jameson hasn’t called me back all day, and I don’t know what’s going on over there at Miles Media, but I know it’s a media circus.

I’m torn between giving him the space that he needs and running to him as fast as I can. I’ve decided that I’m going to do as he asked and just stay here and sit tight. He will call me as soon as he can. I know he will, and he’s right—me being out and about will only add fuel to the fire. He really doesn’t need to worry about me, too, at the moment.

The magnitude of the situation has finally sunk in. What’s going to happen if they can’t find out who transferred that money?

How long can Jameson deal with this type of pressure?

With a lump in my throat I begin to pace. My carpet must be nearly threadbare after today’s pacing activities. I can’t remember ever being this stressed.

At eleven o’clock at night, I haven’t heard from Jameson, and I am sick with worry, literally.

I’ve thrown up twice. I decide to call him one last time . . . where is he?

With shaky fingers, I dial his number, and it rings and then goes to voice mail.

He’s declined the call. My heart sinks, and my eyes fill with tears.

“This is Jameson Miles; leave a message,” the recorded message plays.

“Hello.” I pause. “Jay,” I whisper. “Baby.” I get a lump in my throat. “I’m sorry for lying. I was trying to find out about the case, and then he kissed me and . . .” My voice trails off. “I know how this looks, but you have to believe me. I don’t even like Jake as a friend; you know that.” I walk to the window and stare out over the traffic. “I’m going out of my mind here . . . I love you.” I stay silent, unsure what to say. “Don’t let them poison your mind, Jay. You’re the only person who knows what we have,” I whisper through tears. “Come home to me, where you belong.” I pause, hoping that I’m getting through to him. “I don’t even want to hang up . . . I need you. Please come over . . . I’m begging.”

The other end stays deathly silent, and I screw up my face in pain.

“I love you,” I whisper. The beep sounds, and I am cut off. I throw the phone onto the lounge and begin to cry.

What the hell is happening?

With my heart in my throat, I walk into the Miles Media building. It’s eight thirty in the morning, and I’m coming to work.

Jay didn’t call me back last night, and I can’t say that I blame him.

I cried myself to sleep . . . well, I didn’t really sleep, so I don’t think it counts. I’ve got this sick lead ball in my stomach, and it won’t go away.

I have no one to blame for this fucking mess but myself. I lied to my love, and it backfired, and now he thinks the worst. So I’m here today to do the best job that I can of making it up to him.

He’s hurt . . . I know he is.

My poor man seemingly has the whole world against him, and I’m so worried about him. How much stress can a man take before he cracks?

I get into the elevator and swipe my security card to the top floors, and a red light comes up. I frown. No. I swipe it again, and the red light flickers again.

“No, Jay . . . don’t do this,” I whisper through tears. “Don’t you fucking lock me out.”

I swipe it again; the red light flickers once more. “You son of a bitch,” I whisper angrily. I hit the fortieth-floor button, and the green light appears. My heart begins to hammer hard in my chest. He’s blocked my access to his floor.

I take out my phone and text him.

Are you serious?

You can’t even talk to me?

The elevator doors open, and I stride out onto my floor as I try to calm my anger down.

I know he’s got a lot going on, but he knows this is hurting me, and he doesn’t seem to care.

Is this how he works? He’s just going to cut me from his life without even letting me explain? I sit at my desk and stare into space. My leg bounces in anger . . . what do I do? How do I make him understand that this is all a misunderstanding if he won’t even talk to me?

A group of girls walk out of the elevator and begin to walk down the corridor, and then they all stop on the spot when they see me, as if shocked. I stare at them, and they exchange looks and then smirk to each other. “Hi.” One of them fakes a smile.