The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(40)

Elliot pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please . . . don’t tell me.” He laughs out loud. “What did you call it? Stopover shame.”

“I had to wear a fucking turtleneck for two weeks.” I sigh in disgust.

“Remember the black-tie dinner for Mom’s charity?” Tristan throws his head back and laughs. “And you had the hugest hickey anyone had ever seen.” He chuckles at the memory. “And you had to hide from Mom all night and wear cover-up on your neck. That was fucking hilarious, man.”

“Mortifying.” I shiver as I think back. “Anyway, back to the story.” I glare at Tristan for bringing it up. “Emily—that’s her name—unbeknownst to me got a job here. She started three weeks ago, and then this mishap with the name happened. She came to me with suspicions that something fishy was going on. A fake name that she made up on the spot was no coincidence.” I look around at my brothers. “Our stories are being sold on the black market.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Elliot snaps.

“Our share prices are dropping because we are no longer breaking news.”

Elliot shakes his head in disgust.

“Because the reporters that we are paying for are working for our competition,” Tristan snaps.

“We tested the theory this week. We got Emily to write a bogus story and submit it through the regular channels, and look.” I hit the paper with the backs of my fingers. “Here it is, page three of the Gazette.”

They all stare at the paper in front of us, deep in thought.

“So . . . what do we do?”

“Firing everyone works for me,” I snap.

“No, we have to do this properly. There are a hundred people on that floor. Not to mention IT and the mailroom.”

The boys break into chatter as they discuss our options.

I push my intercom. “Can we get Richard from legal up here, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Should Emily write another story so we can track it more closely?” Elliot asks.

“No,” I snap. “I don’t want her involved again. I don’t want her up here at all.”





Tristan smirks.


“I’m going to wipe that stupid smirk off your face in a minute,” I snap.

“Scared she’s going to give you another hickey?” Elliot jokes. “Must have some pretty good suction going on.”





They all laugh.


I glare at him. “Cut the shit. I’m not in the fucking mood for this today.”

There is a knock on the door. “Come in,” I call. Richard comes into view. “Please take a seat.”

“How can I help you?” He smiles.

“We have reason to believe that someone on the news floor is selling our stories to a competitor. How do we legally handle this?”

Richard frowns as he looks between us. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” He exhales as he thinks. “You would hire a corporate investigation firm.”

“What do they do?” I ask.

“They are business-centric and can involve verifying the legitimacy of a business partner or deal, looking into loss or theft of proprietary information, identifying the potential of a damaged reputation, things like that.”

“No,” I say as I stand. “I don’t want a stranger in here sniffing around. What if the story breaks? It will do more damage to our reputation.”

“With all due respect, Jameson, I don’t see how you have any other choice,” Richard says.

“Do you know any?” Tristan asks.

“No. But I can find out who to use.”

“I don’t like it.”

“They’re professionals. They deal with things like this all the time. You won’t even know they are in the building,” Richard continues.

“How does it work?”

“They usually come in undercover, act as one of the workers while they watch and trace.”

I roll my eyes in disgust. “How ridiculous. This isn’t a fucking MacGyver episode.”

I stare at my brothers, and I know I’ve been forced into a corner. There is no other way around this, and I know I must concede. “Fine.”

Emily

An hour earlier

I power walk up the street among the crowd. I’ll never get used to these busy New York sidewalks no matter how long I live here. I’m exhausted. I was up half the night having sex, and I haven’t been back to sleep since I left Jameson’s at four o’clock. God, what a nightmare this whole situation is. And who the fuck is Chloe?

I order my iced coffee, and as I wait, I buy the Gazette at the newsstand. I’ll read it at lunch. I wonder if they have any jobs available. I’m probably going to need one soon. With a heavy heart, my mind goes to Jameson. Damn it, why does something always have to go wrong with the men I like? If only he were just a normal guy—with a normal shitty apartment and a shitty car and no women texting him—he would be perfect. In every way.

I get a vision of us last night as we made love and kissed for hours, and sadness sweeps over me.

I hate that we connect so deeply on a physical level.

It’s just sex, you idiot. Bone-shattering, awesome, toe-curling sex.