The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(64)

Of course it is.

How often does Mr. Miles have a liquid dinner?

Hmm, I need to get a grip on this stress of his.

I pour myself a glass of wine, take out the ingredients, and look through the cupboards to find the pots and pans and chopping boards and knives. I search Spotify on my phone and put on some chill music.

I begin to chop the chicken with a huge goofy smile on my face.

He kept my scarf.

Forty-five minutes later, I hear the front door open. “Em?” he calls.

“In the kitchen.”

“Hmm . . . something smells good.” He kisses me and wraps his arms around me from behind. “What are you cooking?”

“Fuck bunny stew.”

He laughs loudly, and it’s a beautiful sound. It does things to my insides. “Does your mother know you’re a cannibal?” He kisses my cheek from behind.

I giggle as I stir the pot. “No, and don’t tell her.”

“You didn’t need to cook. I would have taken you out.” He pours himself a glass of wine.

“It’s Monday.” I frown.

“And?” He sips his wine.

“You don’t go out to dinner on a school night.”

“I go out every night.”

“What?” I frown. “You eat out every night?”

“Yeah, of course. Why?”

My mouth falls open, and I put my hand on my hip. “Jameson Miles, you have more money than sense. How do you relax if you go out to dinner every night?”

“I sit in a restaurant and eat.” He shrugs. “It’s really quite easy.”

I roll my eyes in disgust as I keep stirring. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” He takes me in his arms and stares down at me. “Did you really miss me over the weekend?”

I go up onto my toes and kiss his big beautiful lips. “I did, actually.”

He holds me tight.

“This is where you tell me that you missed me too,” I mutter dryly into his shoulder.

“I don’t miss people.”

“Ugh,” I huff as I pull out of his arms and go back to stirring the dinner. “Can you go out of the room so I can drug your food now?” I ask. “I plan on robbing your place.”

He chuckles. “Only if you promise to take advantage of my body while I’m sleeping.”

I giggle. “Deal.”

I dish up our dinner, and we take seats at the kitchen counter. I hold my breath as he takes his first bite. “Hmm, delicious,” he hums.

I smile proudly.

“A fuck bunny who cooks.” He smirks around a forkful of food.

“I love to cook. It’s my hobby.”

He frowns and watches me for a moment. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Emily.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. You’re very . . .” He pauses as he thinks of the right word. “Unaffected.”

“Unaffected by what?” I smirk as I eat.

He shrugs. “New York.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend who cooked for you before?”

“I’ve only ever had one serious relationship, and she was a workaholic like me.” He shrugs. “We would both get home too late from work. Eating out was easier.”

I sip my wine as I stare at him. I would love to blurt out a million questions about her . . . but I won’t. I’ll play it cool.

He moves to get his wine, and he winces.

“What’s wrong?”

“My back’s tight.” He stands and twists his upper body to stretch. “Somebody insisted on me firing my masseuse.”

“Oh, her,” I scoff. “Don’t ruin my night. I’ll find you a new masseuse tomorrow.”

He stretches some more. “Please do.”

“Why does your back get so tight?”

He sits back down. “When I get wound up, my back tightens.”

“What else happens when you get wound up?”

He chews his food as if contemplating his answer. “My temper gets the best of me.”

I smile broadly.

“What?” He smirks.

“All this time I thought you were an asshole, when really you were just stressed out?”

He chuckles. “And what’s your excuse for being a bitch?”

I sip my wine. “Nothing. I really am just a bitch.”

He holds his glass up to clink it with mine. His eyes have a tender glow to them.

“Thank you for dinner. It’s delicious.” He leans over and kisses me. “Like you.”

I remember something. “Oh, and you will be pleased to know, I brought my workout gear so I can come running in the morning.”

“You did?” he asks in surprise.

“Uh-huh.”

“I run fast.”

“Good, because I walk slow.”

A few hours later we both laugh out loud into the darkness.

“You did not,” he says.

I giggle. “Uh-huh.” It’s late, and we are lying in bed, facing each other, and talking after making love.

“What on earth?” He rubs his hand up over my stomach and then breast as he listens. His face is alight with mischief. “How?”