The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(27)

I am not going to hold on to this job with sloppy mistakes like that. I’m so annoyed at myself.

I flick through the paper, and then something catches my eye.

Satanic Graffiti in New York

A spate of bizarre graffiti attacks on houses in the West Village has the residents running scared. Marjorie Bishop’s house has been graffitied three times, and the police are refusing to take action. Another resident, Robert Day Daniels, has been suffering too.

I frown as I read the story. What?

Marjorie said she didn’t tell anyone about this other than me. I read it again and again. It quotes my story almost word for word, and each time I get more confused.

Did she tell another reporter the same wrong name? I take out my phone and dial her number, and she answers on the first ring. “Hello, Marjorie, this is Emily Foster.”

“Oh hello, dear; that was quick.”

“Marjorie, did you speak to anyone else from another paper about this graffiti story?”

“No, dear.”

“You haven’t told anyone?” I frown.

“Not a soul. The street and I made a collective decision that we only wanted Miles Media to report on it. That way we knew the police would have to listen.”

I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears. What the hell is going on?

“Coffee for Emily,” the cashier calls.

“Thank you.” I take my coffee and head back out into the rain, confused as all hell.

It’s one o’clock, and I’m on my lunch break. I arrive at the top floor and walk through to reception. “Hello.” I smile nervously. “I’m here to see Mr. Miles. It’s an urgent matter.”

I’ve been racking my brain all day, and the only theory I can come up with isn’t pretty. I need to talk to Jameson.

The blonde receptionist smiles. “Just a moment, please. Your name is?”

“Emily Foster.”

She pushes the intercom. “Mr. Miles, I have an Emily Foster here to see you.”

“Send her in,” his velvety voice purrs without hesitation.

I feel my stomach dip with nerves, and I follow her out into the corridor and across the marble. Damn it, I still haven’t bought rubber-soled shoes yet. I try to tiptoe so I don’t click as I walk. “Just knock on the end door.”

Holy shit. My heart begins to pump, and I force a smile. “Thank you.”

She disappears up the hall, and I close my eyes as I stand in front of the door, bracing myself. Okay, here goes.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Come in,” I hear Jameson call. I scrunch my eyes shut as nerves dance deep in my stomach.

I open the door, and there he sits in a navy suit. With his white shirt, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, he looks like God’s gift to women. Maybe he is. “Hello, Emily,” he whispers as his sexy eyes hold mine.

“Hello.”

Jameson stands and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us. “Please, take a seat.”

I fall into the chair, and he sits behind his desk and leans back in his chair; his eyes don’t leave me.

“I wanted to see you about something,” I say as I glance at the glass of scotch beside him. I don’t know what kind of work has scotch involved, but where’s my glass?

I could do with a drink or ten right now.

He sits back and smirks as if amused.

“Umm.” I pause and swallow the sand in my throat. “So something has happened, and I know I could get into trouble for it, but I feel like you need to know,” I blurt out in a rush.

“Such as?”

“I got a name wrong in a story.”

Jameson’s unimpressed eyes hold mine.

“But it’s the weirdest thing,” I stammer. “Today the Gazette has published the same story . . . with my error in it.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Look, I don’t know, and I could be totally wrong, and I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, but I think . . .” I pause.

“You think what?” he snaps.

“I just know for certain that the Gazette didn’t get that story themselves, and they most definitely couldn’t make the same mistake as I have. The old lady in the story contacted me directly because she would only talk to Miles Media.” I put the Gazette down on the desk in front of him, and he reads it and stares at me for a moment as if processing my words.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I got the name wrong.” I point to the name where my mistake was made. “This here is my error.”

Jameson brushes his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip as he stares at the paper before him, deep in thought. “Thank you. I’ll discuss this with Tristan and get back to you.”

“Okay.” I stand. “I’m sorry for making the error. It was unprofessional, and it won’t happen again.” My eyes go to Jameson, and I wait for him to say something. Is that it?

“Goodbye, Emily,” he says flatly.

Oh, he’s dismissing me. “Goodbye.” I turn, feeling dejected, and make my way downstairs. I don’t know whether I just did the right thing by telling him my theory. Maybe it will only work against me.

It’s four o’clock, and I’m drinking my afternoon coffee. My phone rings, and I answer it. “Hello.”