The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(128)

I stare at him for a moment as his words roll around in my head. I turn and walk into my building and close the door behind me. He watches me through the glass.

I hit the elevator button, and the doors open straightaway. I dive in and hit the buttons to close the doors as my tears well in my eyes.

Bastard.

I walk out of my building right at eight o’clock in the morning. I haven’t slept much, and I keep seeing Jameson’s sad face when I left him last night. I hate that I care about him. His words kept playing over and over in my head all night. I hate that he said them. I hate that they made sense.

“Because you love me . . . and two wrongs don’t make a right. If you don’t let me make this right between us out of stubbornness, which is a real possibility . . . we will both regret it forever; you know we will.”

God, what a mess.

“Good morning,” I hear a chirpy voice from behind me.

Jameson is standing beside my door in his navy suit, looking all dapper and not at all discouraged like he should be.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” He smiles as he takes my gym bag from me and puts it over his shoulder. “Are we catching the bus today?”

I look at him deadpan. “I’m catching the bus. What you’re doing . . . I have no idea.”

“I’m following you around until you agree to have dinner with me.”

“It’s not happening, Jameson.”

“Okay,” he says as he begins to walk to the bus stop. “I’ll just be following you around for forever, then.” I stare at him, and he gives me a slow, sexy smile. “You look beautiful today.”

“Stop it.”

“No.”

I walk to the bus stop with him beside me. I’m staying silent, and he is jabbering.

“Did you run this morning?” he asks. “I did.”

I stare at him.

“I’m actually quite fit at the moment—all this heartache has me running at record speed,” he continues.

That makes two of us . . . I keep my mouth tightly closed. I don’t want him to know that I’ve been angry running too.

We catch the bus. I’m silent, and he’s carrying on like we are long-lost best friends.

“Do you want to go camping this weekend?” he asks as he opens his paper.

“No. I’m going to my parents this weekend,” I reply flatly.

“Oh.” His face falls. “Well, that’s going to be uncomfortable.”

“What is?”

“When I follow you to your parents.”

“You are not coming to my parents,” I scoff.

“Watch me.” His eyes dance with mischief. “You won’t talk to me; I’m going to keep following you until you do.”

“I don’t want you to follow me. In fact, I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“No need to be snarky,” he says casually as he turns the page of his paper. “It’s unbecoming.”

I glare at him. “You know what’s unbecoming?” I whisper angrily. “Jerks who break girls’ hearts and think that they can snap their fingers and get her back at the drop of a hat.”

He smirks down at me. “Yes, I have to agree. Although if they are meant to be together, and he was under the impression that he was doing the right thing by her at the time . . .”

“Oh, please,” I huff. “Can you hear yourself?”

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

“No.”

The bus pulls up at my stop, and he stands and grabs my gym bag and puts it back over his shoulder. I watch him walk up the aisle of the bus to get off, and I smile to myself. Has he ever caught a bus before?

Idiot.

We walk up the road in silence, and I turn and catch sight of the limo parked across the street. Alan is leaning up against it, and he smiles and waves over at me.

“Alan knows you’re here?” I whisper in mortification.

“Everyone knows I’m here,” he says casually as he hands my bag over. “It’s no secret that I want you back. I have stated my intentions loud and clear.”

I stare at him.

“See you this afternoon.”

“Jameson,” I sigh.

“I’m not giving up on us, Em . . . ever.” He smiles softly. “We were made for each other.”

I scratch my head in frustration.

“Have a nice day.” He watches me with his hands in his pockets, keeping a safe distance.

“Bye.” I turn and walk into my building. My phone beeps a text. It’s from an unknown number.

Have a good day.

This is my burner phone

in case of an emergency.

Jameson. He’s got another phone, one that I haven’t blocked.

I get into the elevator and find myself smirking at the ground.

Stop it . . . he’s an asshole . . . never forget that.

It’s three o’clock, and I’m finishing a report for publication this week. I love this job. I mean, not as much as I loved Miles Media, but that ship has sailed—may as well make the most of it. The staff are all really friendly and nice and have welcomed me with open arms.

“Delivery for Emily Foster,” I hear.