The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(35)

My phone buzzes. “Hello,” I answer as my heart races.

“I’m downstairs,” his deep, velvety voice purrs. “What number are you?”

“I’ll come down now. See you soon.” I walk back to the full-length mirror and take one last look. I’m wearing a black fitted dress that hangs to just below my knees. It has spaghetti straps and a low back. It goes with my black stilettos and matching clutch. My long dark hair is set in big Hollywood curls and pinned back on one side. I’ve gone all out with my makeup and have smoky gray eyes and glossy red lips.

And of course, I’m waxed to within an inch of my life . . . just in case.

I take the elevator, and when I walk out through the foyer, I see him through the glass front doors of my building. He’s wearing a navy sports coat and blue jeans with a white T-shirt. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of a magazine.

My breath catches at the sight of him, and I smile as he turns toward me.

“Hi.” He smiles.

“Hi.”

His eyes roam down the length of my body as he takes my hand in his. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I smile bashfully.

We stare at each other . . . and it’s there again. The electric current that runs between us whenever we’re alone. “What do you want to do?” he asks as his eyes drop to my lips.

I smile. Jim’s here—Jameson wouldn’t ask me what I wanted to do. “Didn’t you mention Italian?”

He leans in and kisses me, with just the right amount of suction to raise my feet from the floor. My arms go around his neck, and we stand in the street and stare at each other. “You really do turn me on, Emily Foster,” he breathes.

I smile as I pull my fingers through his dark hair. “Did you come all the way across town to make out with me on the street?” I ask innocently.

“No.” He smirks. “But now that I’m here, it’s the only thing I want to do.”

We kiss again, and it’s slow and tender, and I feel my arousal fly in like a 747.

His hard length makes an appearance up against my stomach, and I smile broadly.

“What?”

“Is he coming to dinner?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Well, he does seem to want to hang around whenever you are near.”

“Hanging isn’t a word that I would use to describe that thing.”

His eyes sparkle with a certain something, and he takes my hand in his. “Let’s go this way.”

“We’re walking?” I ask in surprise.

“I got dropped off. They’ll pick us up later. We’ll catch a cab from here to the restaurant.”

“Okay.”

We walk around the corner, and he hails a cab, and we climb into the back of it. “Waverly Place, please.”

“Okay.” The driver pulls out into the traffic.

“How long have you lived in New York?” I ask.

“My whole life.”

“Your parents live here?” I frown. I can’t imagine growing up in a city like this.

“Yes, although I went to school elsewhere.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Many places—finished in Aspen.”

I stare at him. What the hell? “You went to school alone in Aspen?”

“No, I always had my brothers with me.” He picks my hand up and kisses the back of it with a soft smile.

I stare at him. We come from completely different worlds. I can’t even fathom his upbringing.

“What’s that look?” he asks.

“I wasn’t even allowed to have a sleepover at my friend’s place.”

“Independence has always been encouraged in my family.”

I smile as I think of something.

“What?”

“If you’ve been living on your own since you were . . . ?” I pause as I wait for his answer.

“Twelve.”

“You should have the emotional intelligence of a ninety-year-old. Is that right?”

He throws his head back and laughs out loud. “Should being the operative word.” His eyes dance with delight. “And what would your emotional intelligence be at?”

“Hmm.” I frown as I think. “Emotionally I think I would be about age thirty.”

“Physically?” He smirks.

“Oh God, eighteen.” I laugh. “I’m not very experienced at all.”

His eyes hold mine, and I feel the burn from his gaze.

“What would your physical experience be at?” I whisper.

“I’m more of a show than tell kind of person.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Happy to give you a demonstration, though.”

I giggle as the cab pulls to a stop. “I bet you are.” We climb out of the cab, and two minutes later Jameson pulls me by the hand into a restaurant named Babbo. It kind of looks like a mini English pub from the outside, all quaint and cute, but when we walk through the door, it’s a lot bigger than it seems. The space is dark and moody, and gold light fixtures add to the ambience. Fresh flowers are in giant vases everywhere, and it feels super romantic.

“Hello, Mr. Miles.” The man at the desk smiles. “Your table is this way, sir.” Jameson takes my hand and leads me through to the corner of the restaurant; the waiter pulls out my chair.