The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(124)

“Yeah, that sounds completely shit,” I mutter dryly.

“I don’t care what you say. You’re coming.”

I stare straight ahead. I’ve lost the ability to get excited about anything lately.

He falls serious. “I’m worried about you, Jay.”





I roll my eyes.


“We all are. You’re acting completely out of character.”

“I’m fine,” I murmur into my coffee. I look around once more, remembering why I’m here.

“Why don’t you just go to her house if you want to see her?” he says.

“I tried that last night.”

“How did it go?”

I puff air into my cheeks. “She went postal and . . .” I pause as I try to explain the situation. “I took her yellow roses, and she smashed the fuck out of them like a madman.”

“Yeah?” He smirks and then smiles broadly as if impressed. “Why would you take her yellow roses and not red ones?”

“I thought . . .” I exhale heavily. “I thought yellow was safe, signifying friendship so that she would talk to me. I just wanted to talk to her.”

“You didn’t tell her that, though, did you?”

“Yeah.”

He gives a subtle shake of the head as if I’m stupid. “How did that go down?”

“That’s about the time she turned into the Hulk.”

“I don’t blame her, to be honest.”

My eyes flick to him in question.

“You well and truly fucked her over.”

“I did not fuck her over,” I spit. “I’m trying to protect her.”

“Listen, you can lie to yourself all you want to. But don’t bother lying to me. You’re a bad liar . . . the worst.”

“Fuck off, man; it’s too early for this shit.” I sigh.

“Tristan,” the girl behind the counter calls. He stands and gets his coffee and slaps me on the back. “You staying here, being a miserable prick?”

“Fuck off,” I grunt. He smiles and leaves without another word.

I exhale heavily and stare back down at my coffee. I get a vision of the hurt on Emily’s face last night, and my chest constricts. I keep going over and over it in my mind, and I just want to know that she’s all right. Maybe then I can forgive myself and stop thinking about her every minute of every day. I take out my phone. I’ll call her.

No, she will only hang up. I’ll text . . . what will I write?

Good morning.

Murder any roses today?

I hit send and wait. I drink my coffee and stare at my phone as I wait for her to reply . . . she doesn’t.

Twenty minutes later, I text her again.

Please talk to me.

I order another coffee as I wait. It’s 8:15 a.m., and I know she hasn’t started work yet. I also know that she would have her phone on her and is purposely ignoring my texts.

Fuck this. I dial her number, and it rings . . . I close my eyes as I wait.





It rings and then declines.


Fuck. She hit reject.





I text her.


Answer your phone or I’m coming over there.

My text doesn’t go through . . . huh? I call again, and the call won’t connect. What’s going on? I try again . . . nothing. For ten minutes, I continue to try to get through. I can’t. What’s going on?

I type into Google, “Why can’t I text or call someone?” The answer bounces back that cuts to the bone.

“You’ve been blocked.”

She blocked my number? What the fuck?

Anger surges through me; nobody has ever blocked me before. Not in business or personal . . . and never a woman.

She really doesn’t want to be friends with me . . . in any shape or form.

My heart sinks. How the hell did I fuck this up so badly?

I stare at the Miles Media building through the window, and the thought of going there today and playing the facade that everything’s okay is just too much.





I text Tristan.


I’m taking the day off.

See you tomorrow.

I sit and finish my coffee, and a song comes on—“Bad Liar” by Imagine Dragons.

I listen . . . Tristan just called me a bad liar, and ironically, the lyrics ring true. With a sad damnation to hell, I drag myself out of the café and into a cab.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks.

“Park Avenue.”

The cab pulls out into the traffic, and I put my headphones in, hit Spotify, and listen to the song again.

“Bad Liar” . . . my new anthem.

I flick through the travel images on Google. I’m going to take a skiing trip.

Switzerland, I think.

I need to get away. New York is just too small . . . or suffocating . . . or life threatening . . . or something that I just can’t quite put my finger on. Either way, I’m getting the hell out of here.

She blocked me.

I might work from London for a while . . . yeah, I could do that. Would make sense.

And I would get to spend more time with Elliot and Christopher. My heart drops as I remember someone else who lives in London. I’d be closer to Claudia, and I broke her heart the other day again too.