The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(31)

“God, I live for these stories,” Aaron whispers. “Please tell me you fucked him on his desk?”

I giggle as I finalize what I’m doing. “No, don’t be stupid.” I grab my manila folder with my fake news story. “I’ll see you guys later.”

They both look up at me and smirk. “Good luck.”

In five minutes, I find myself on the top floor with a ferociously beating heart. I decided not to wear what he told me to wear; that’s just way too eager.

What makes him think he can tell me what to wear, anyway?

Sammia smiles when she sees me. “Mr. Miles, you have Emily Foster here to see you.”

“Send her in,” his velvety voice replies.

I walk through the marble hall on my tiptoes as I make another mental note to buy rubber-soled shoes. How do I keep forgetting to do this? I knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls.

I open the door and find him sitting at his desk on the phone; his eyes find mine.

“Hello, Emily,” he mouths.

“Hi.” I smile as I clutch my folder.

“Please take a seat.” He gestures to a chair and holds up his finger. “One minute,” he mouths.

I smile and nod as I sit down.

“I understand that, Richard. Yes, I know.” He listens. “I don’t care if she’s hardworking. She broke protocol, and there are consequences.”

I frown. What the hell? Who’s he talking to?

“Richard,” he snaps. “You will fire her this afternoon, or I will. And we both know who’s going to make it less painful.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Tristan is aware, yes,” he snaps. “But as the CEO I have the control. You have two hours to escort Lara Aspin from the building, or I’ll come down myself.” He hangs up angrily.

I stare at him, wide eyed. What did she do?

He bites his bottom lip angrily as his eyes hold mine.

“I’ve got the story you requested,” I murmur.

“Good.” He takes the folder from me and rolls his chair back as he opens it and begins reading.

He’s different today, angry. But maybe it’s just that call he came off from.

He inhales deeply and flicks the pages, clearly frustrated.

“Is it okay?”

He raises his eyebrows as if unimpressed.

I frown.

“A seismic weather event is hardly breaking news, is it?”

“Well, what do you want me to write about?” I stammer. “I can’t name a person or place or anything because it’s fake news. I don’t want to get us sued.”

“I am well aware of what it is, Ms. Foster,” he snaps.

“What’s wrong with you today?” I whisper.

He flicks the pages as he reads. “Nothing.” He reads on. “This won’t do. I’ll write it myself.”

I frown. “I spent four hours on that last night.”

He looks up from the papers, and I wither under his glare.

“Well, what do you want me to write about, then?” I ask.

“Anything but fucking weather.” He closes the folder as if disgusted and places it on the table.

He pushes the intercom. “Tristan, come in here, please.”

“Yep.”

I shrivel in my chair a little. God, he’s mean when he’s angry.

Tristan comes into the office, and Jameson exhales heavily. “Ms. Foster has written her story.” He gestures to the folder.

“Good.” Tristan smiles, and he picks it up and begins to read.

“A seismic weather event won’t do,” Jameson barks.

Tristan twists his lips as he reads on. “It’s very good, though,” he comments.

Hmm, I’m totally crushing on the wrong brother . . . my one is an asshole.

“Thank you.” I fake a smile. “With all due respect, Jameson,” I state, “if we name this weather event and hype it up as coming in the next four months and that it’s going to cause extensive damage, it will have legs. No names to trace, people, or places. I don’t see how I could have written a story about something else without jeopardizing our integrity.”

“We are not here to prove our integrity,” he growls. “We are trying to withhold it.”

I sit back in my chair, annoyed.

“I want a story on an FBI murder case.” He narrows his eyes as he thinks. “Make up a fake murder and name and a fake investigation and how close they are to closing it.”

My anger bubbles. “If you knew what you wanted me to write, why didn’t you say that yesterday?” I snap. “You told me to do what I wanted, and I spent four hours writing that for you.”

Tristan rolls his lips to hide his smirk. “I have things to do. Let me know what story we’re going with,” he says as he walks toward the door. “Thanks, Emily. Great work.” He closes the door behind him.

I glare at the asshole in front of me. “So what do you want me to do?”

His cold eyes rise to meet mine. “I told you what I wanted you to do yesterday, but you didn’t do that . . . did you?”

I frown. Wait, what’s he talking about now? I’m confused.

He doesn’t have to be so damn rude. I snatch the folder from the table. “All right,” I snap. “I’ll write a fake story about a fake murder of a fake CEO by a fake new employee.”