The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(28)

“Hello, Emily, this is Sammia. Mr. Miles would like to see you in his office, please.”

I frown. “Now?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay. I’m on my way up.”

Ten minutes later, I knock on Jameson’s door. “Come in,” he calls.

I walk in and find him sitting behind his large desk. His face breaks into a sexy smile as his eyes find mine. “Hello.”

My stomach dances with nerves. “Hi.”

“Have you had a good day?” he asks, and in slow motion I watch as his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He’s different this afternoon. He has a playful air about him.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Tristan, and we have a special project that we would like you to work on,” he says as he leans back in his chair.

“You do?”

“Yes. We want you to write a story to publish.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I shrug. “What’s the story on?”

Jameson narrows his eyes as he thinks. “I was thinking . . . something along the lines of lovebites.”

I frown in confusion. “Love bites?”

Amusement flashes across his face as if he’s trying to keep it straight. “Lovebites, one word. Plural.”

I stare at him for a moment in confusion. I don’t get it.

Oh my God. He’s talking about the hickey I gave him. Of all the nerve. Trust him to bring that up.

I tilt my chin to the sky in defiance. “I think I’m better equipped to write a story on premature ejaculation. That way you could help me with it.” I smile sweetly.

Jameson’s eyes dance with delight. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” I reply straight faced. “News stories are so much better when they have evidence to back them up.”

Amusement crosses his face as he sips his scotch. I have no idea what’s going through that head of his this afternoon. Maybe he’s had too many scotches. We stare at each other, and I want to blurt out, “Did you ever think of me?” But I can’t because this is work, and I’m acting uninterested. Actually, let me rephrase that. I’m not interested—I’m slightly fascinated. Huge difference.

“How was your weekend?” he asks.

“Fine.”

His eyebrow rises. “Just fine?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.” I don’t want to tell him that I broke up with Robbie, but then I don’t want to lie to him either.

“You got back Sunday night?”

“Yes.”

His eyes hold mine, and I know he wants to ask about Robbie and me but is holding his tongue.

“How was your weekend?” I ask.

“Great,” he replies as his eyes drop to my lips. “I had a great weekend.”

I frown. Does great mean just generally great, or does great mean “I had great hot sex with a gorgeous, great woman all weekend”?

Stop it.

“Sorry about that,” Tristan says as he breezes into the room. He smiles warmly and shakes my hand. “I’m Tristan.” He’s slightly younger than Jameson, and his hair is a lighter brown and has a curl to it. His eyes are big and brown. He’s very different from Jameson but has that same power thing going on.

“I’m Emily.”

His eyes hold mine. “Hello, Emily.” He and Jameson make eye contact, and at that moment, I know that he knows Jameson and my history together. I swallow the nervous lump in my throat.

Why would he have told his brother about me?

Tristan glances at Jameson’s scotch. “What time is it? Has happy hour started?”

“Four thirty, and yes,” Jameson replies.

Tristan goes to the bar and pours himself a glass of the amber liquid. He holds a glass up. “Would you like a drink, Emily?”

“No thanks. I’m working,” I reply nervously.

Amusement crosses Jameson’s face as he lifts his drink to his lips.

Okay, what the hell is that look? Is it a condescending smirk or nearly a smile? I can’t read this man at all.

Jameson sits still and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask. I really don’t know what kind of meeting has scotch involved. Maybe I should have had a glass. God, no. Remember what you did last time you got drunk with this man. You tried to suck all the blood out of him.

“As we just discussed, we have a special project we would like you to work on,” Jameson says.

I nod as I look between them.

“Yes. In light of what you told me this morning, we want you to write a story for us to publish.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I look between them. “What’s the story on?”

“Name a subject.” His tongue slips out and runs across his bottom lip, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “We have a secret project coming up, and I wanted you to be involved, but I need to know if you can report on a subject.”

“You know I can. I’ve worked for regional papers for five years as a reporter.”

“This is strictly off the record,” Tristan says. “You cannot tell a soul. It’s imperative.”

“I won’t,” I say as I look between them.