The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(53)

I hit the keys on my computer with force. Twat, twat . . . fucking twat.

So much for my years of university study. My parents must be so proud. When they offered me the chance to do this, I thought it was going to be exciting and a chance to prove my worth. Maybe not?

“Down the end,” I hear someone say. I glance up to see a man with a big brown paper bag.

“Uber Eats for Emily Foster.”

“What?” I look around, embarrassed. “I didn’t order anything.”

He reads the docket. “It says here that . . .” He pauses as he reads and frowns as if confused. “It says here that this Uber Eats delivery is quality controlled and safe for human consumption.”

I stare at him and take the bag from his hands.

He squints as he continues to read the docket. “This doesn’t make sense . . .”

“What doesn’t?”

“Sugar to sweeten you up.”

I open the bag to find a huge passion fruit cheesecake in its entirety, and I look up at the camera and smirk. Is he kidding?

“Who sent this?” I ask.

“It says here, the sender is a Mr. Nice Guy.”

I stare at him deadpan. “Mr. Nice Guy?”

“Yeah, weird, huh?”

“Thank you.” I try my hardest not to smile. I know he’s watching.

Molly and Aaron peer into the bag. “Score,” Aaron screeches. “I’ll get the plates.” He takes off to our staff kitchen.

“Thank God for cheesecake,” Molly sings in excitement.

Okay . . . he’s made the first move. What do I do?

I take out my phone and text him.

Dear Mr. Nice Guy

Thank you.

Although, I should have you know

I’m already sweet enough.

I hit send and wait. A reply bounces back.

I have no doubt. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?

I sit back in my chair, surprised by his request. This is a no-win situation. He wants a fuck buddy to join his harem, and I want him all to myself. I write back.

I think we both said all we needed to on Sunday morning.

God . . . why can’t he just be normal? A reply bounces back.

I have a proposal for you.

I stare at the message but don’t reply. A proposal? What, does he want me to be his new masseuse?

I feel my anger bubble at the mere thought of her. Ten minutes later, another text comes in.

Hear me out, please.

Please. He said please. Ugh, okay. I reply.

Fine.

I wait.

I’ll pick you up at seven.

“Here you go,” Aaron says as he passes me a plate with the biggest slice of cheesecake I’ve ever seen. He passes Molly hers and then takes a seat with his.

“This is fucking delicious,” Molly mumbles with her mouth full.

Aaron moans in appreciation. “Oh my fuck, foodgasm.”

I take a bite as I concentrate hard on not smiling too hard—just in case he’s watching.

Well played, Mr. Miles . . . well played.

Sometimes you just know in your gut that you shouldn’t be doing something. The outcome is already written in the stars, and sometimes you should just be stronger and say no. But what if you can’t?

I can’t physically bring myself not to go tonight. The masochist in me wants to see him. The same masochist wants him to take me and throw me onto his fancy bed and fuck me till I forget my own name. It’s been a long and lonely week. But I have to stay strong tonight. If I cave in now, the last week has been for nothing.

And I still stand by what I said on Sunday. I am too good for him with the way he is at the moment, and I won’t share, and money means nothing to me at all.

He needs to step up or step away.

The security buzzer sounds, and my stomach dances in excitement. “Hello.”

“Uber Eats.” I hear his velvety voice.

I smile broadly. “What have you got for me?”

“Italian sausage.”

“Hmm,” I tease. “Are you going to drug my sausage and take advantage of my body after I fall unconscious?”

“Undoubtedly.”

I smile and push the button to let him up, and then I begin to pace as I wave my arms around in the air.

Play it cool . . . play it cool . . . play it cool.

Knock, knock. I open the door in a rush, and there he stands, gray shirt and black jeans . . . blazing blue eyes. A slow, sexy smile crosses his face. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I whisper as I stare at the beautiful specimen in front of me. I just want to throw myself at him, the pull to him unbearable.

He leans down and kisses my cheek as he walks past me into my apartment.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.” I grab my purse and wrap.

His eyes drop down my body in my black dress. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks,” I breathe.

“Let’s go.” He holds his arm out, and I link mine with his.

We take the elevator in awkward silence. He is pensive, and I’m just nervous as all hell.

Playing cool, calm, and collected is terrifying, and I remind myself not to drink too much tonight. We walk out the front of the building, and the limo is parked at the curb.

He opens the door, and I climb in. Memories of the first time I was in this back seat accost me, and the phrase dirty ho rolls around in my head.