The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(122)

Maybe I’m not okay.

Emily started her new job today, and I wanted to call her and wish her luck.

I couldn’t sleep thinking about it and even picked up the phone a few times. I drop my head.

But what’s the point . . .

I wonder if she ran this morning. Did she wear her runners that she said have motors on them? I smile softly to myself as I remember Elliot thinking I was talking about Zuckerberg having the motorized runners.





Idiot . . .


I twist in my chair to stretch my back. I need a massage.

Emily doesn’t like me getting massages. I think back to the kind of massages I used to get, and it seems like another lifetime ago.

BE—Before Emily . . . stop it.

“Jameson will be addressing that in the morning.”

I look up, lost. What are they talking about?

The board members around the table all stare at me as they wait for my reply. My eyes flick to Tristan for guidance.

“When you fly to Seattle tonight.” He raises his eyebrows as a gentle reminder.

“Yes.” I nod. “That’s right.”

Tristan is limping me through work at the moment, well aware of my state of mind.

The meeting continues, and I sip my water to try and bring my mind back to where it needs to be. This isn’t good enough, Jameson.

Focus.





I walk onto the plane.


“Good evening, Mr. Miles. Your seat is here, sir. 1A.”

“Thank you.” I fall into the seat in the front row of first class.

The plane slowly boards, and I stare out the window. Flying never used to bother me. I hate it now.

I hate that it reminds me of her . . . of how we met. Of the night we had together.

Of how badly things turned out in the end.

With my elbow leaning on the armrest, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I just want to get there and go to my hotel and sleep. I’m tired and not in the mood for this shit.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Miles?”

“Scotch, please.”

An elderly man takes the seat next to me. He nods. “Hello.”

“Hi.” I smile. I turn my attention out the window to the baggage crew down on the tarmac, all doing their job and rushing around doing the safety checks.

They’re driving on carts, flashing lights, and waving flags.

I wouldn’t even care if the plane fucking crashed.

Burning in hell would be better than this.

Four days later

I smile at Alan as he stands next to the limo at the airport. “Hello, sir. Did you have a nice trip?”

“It was fine; thank you.” I smile as I get into the back seat.

“Would you like to do the normal route, sir?” he asks through the door.

“Yes, please.”

He smiles. “Very well.” He shuts the door, and moments later, the car pulls out into the traffic.

Half an hour later, he slows down as we drive past Emily’s apartment, and I peer through the window.

Is she there?

We do this every night on the way home—my own stupid way of saying good night to her . . . if I don’t, I end up running back here later.

Who am I kidding? I run back here most nights anyway. I hold my breath as we drive past, hoping to catch a glimpse of her . . . I’ve never seen her once.

My heart drops; she’s not here.

I look back through the back window as we disappear down the street.

Emily . . . where are you?

Emily

I sit on the bus on my way home from work and read my Kindle. It’s dark and just around six o’clock in the evening. I’m happier . . . stronger. I’ve been at my new job for three weeks, and I love it. I did the right thing. People are all really lovely, and thankfully, I’m not the office gossip anymore, and I have a more integral role than I did at Miles Media. I still see Molly and Aaron all the time for drinks and dinner, and I’ve planned to go home for the weekend.

I’m running a lot . . . funnily enough I don’t need to pretend a man with an ax is chasing me. I’m so angry that I can’t help but sprint.

Gleeful jogging is no longer in my repertoire. The bus slows. I close my Kindle and stand as I wait for the bus to stop. I climb down the steps and begin to walk the two blocks to my apartment. The season is getting colder. Fog puffs as I breathe, and I wrap my large coat around me for warmth as I stride it out.

I might have Indian for dinner. No . . . stick to your budget; there are leftovers in the fridge from last night. I approach my building and fumble around in my bag for my keys.

“Hello, Em,” a voice says from behind me.

I turn, startled. Jameson stands before me, and the sight of him tightens my chest. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes search mine. “I had to see you.”

The sight of him brings an unexpected wave of emotion that I previously thought I had under control. I stare at him through tears.

He carefully steps forward. “How are you?”

Suddenly, I’m furious . . . like a raging bull, and I drop my head and fumble through my bag. I need to get away from him. Where are my fucking keys? “Fine,” I snap. I find my keys and turn toward the door.

“I miss you.”

I stop and close my eyes.

“I can’t . . .” He pauses. “I can’t move on until I know we’re okay.”