The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(129)

I look up and see a man walking through the floor with a white box. What the hell?

“Oh, she’s in that office over there,” I hear someone say.

He knocks on my door. “Are you Emily Foster?”

“Yes.”

“I have a delivery for you.” He hands over the white box.

I take it from him. “Thank you.”

“Um.” He smirks, shuffling awkwardly in place. “It’s from the Kung Fu Panda.”

“What?”

“I was told to tell you that the Kung Fu Panda sent it.”

I try to hide my smile and fail miserably. “Thank you.” He leaves, and I open the box to find a huge caramel cheesecake and a small white card.

Cheesecake for my cheesecake.

xoxoxo

I close the box and smirk. He’s an idiot, and I’m not a cheesecake . . . if he thinks he can weasel his way back into my good book by being cute, he has another thing coming.

Kung Fu Panda . . . where the hell does he get this shit?

A girl from the office next door pops her head around the corner. “What’s that?”

“Cheesecake, want some?”

“Hell yeah, I’ll get the plates.” She disappears to the kitchen.

I stare at my phone for a moment. Should I text him and say thank you?

No, this is why he did it—to get a reaction. He knows I’ve got good manners and would never receive a gift without thanking him. He’ll be waiting for my call.

Well, too bad for the stupid Kung Fu Panda. More fool him.

He created this beast; he can live with my rudeness. He’s in the freezer.

At six o’clock in the evening, I make my way downstairs. I may have fixed my hair and applied some lipstick . . . not that I’ll ever admit to it.

I walk out of the building and out onto the street to see Jameson standing and leaning up against the wall. He’s wearing his gray suit, the one that I love. His dark hair hangs over his forehead, and his chiseled jaw does things to my insides. He smiles broadly and pushes off the wall when he sees me coming. How long has he been standing there? “Good afternoon, Ms. Foster.”

“I didn’t know that you knew kung fu,” I say as I walk past him.

“Oh, I do,” he says as he falls into step behind me. “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know. Did I tell you that I’m becoming an extreme sportist?”

I keep silent as I walk. It’s hard to keep a straight face when he’s in this mood.

“Yes, I thought I might start hiking up mountains and camping there and stuff. Making fire with my bare hands and whatnot.”

I smirk as I walk in front of him, unable to help it. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. You see, I’m becoming one with nature.”

“You. One with nature. I’d like to see that,” I mutter dryly.

“Okay, we can hike up a mountain this weekend. How’s Mount Kosciuszko?”

“I’m busy,” I say as I keep walking.

“Oh, that’s right; we are going to your parents this weekend.”

“You’re not coming, Jameson.”

“Your mother said I could when I spoke to her earlier.”

I spin on the spot toward him. “You called my mother?”

“No, but I will if you don’t have dinner with me.” He smiles hopefully.

I stare at him. “Jameson, if you think the Kung Fu Panda sending me a cake and calling me a cheesecake can reverse the damage you have done, you are seriously deluded.”

He takes my two hands in his. “I don’t, Em, but please . . . just let me say what I need to say.”

I stare at him.

“And then if you don’t want to see me again, I’ll stop following you.” His eyes hold mine. “We need to talk about this; you know we do.”

I roll my eyes.

“Please?” He bats his eyelashes to try and be cute; it’s annoying that he is.

“Fine. You have ten minutes.” I sigh.

“Where do you want to go?” He smiles.

“Wherever is easiest.”

“Okay.” He looks around. “How about that Italian restaurant across the street?”

“Fine.” He tries to take my hand, and I snatch it away. “You have got to be kidding,” I snap.

“Jesus, calm down,” he mutters.

I follow him across the street and into the restaurant, and we take a seat at the back of the restaurant. It’s small and darkened with candles on the tables. Red tablecloths decorate the tables. It’s nothing like the usual upmarket Italian that he takes me to, but it will have to do.

“Can I get you some drinks?” the waiter asks.

Jameson smirks and gestures to me. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

I stare at him for a moment and open my menu. “All right, we’ll have a bottle of the Henschke Hill of Grace, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The waiter disappears out the back to the bar.

Jameson’s eyes come to me, and he smiles softly and takes my hands over the table.

“Do you know how much I’ve missed you?” he whispers.

I stare at him in some kind of strange detached state.

“Did you miss me?”