The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(111)

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.

Do you know this girl?

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.

Sure thing, are you okay?

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?