The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(70)

Screw this. I’ll have to find out who’s doing this myself. It’s obvious Jake has no frigging idea.

From the corner of my eye, I see people scurry back to their desks, and I glance up to see Jameson and Tristan walking through the floor. Tristan smiles and talks to people as he walks along. Jameson stays solemn, in all his cranky gorgeousness.

His back is ramrod straight, and his face is so damn kissable it hurts.

You’re angry with him . . . remember, fool? Look away, look away.

I go back to my computer, but then I see out of the corner of my eye the familiar gray suit. I look up to find Jameson standing next to my desk. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” I fake a smile.

His eyes hold mine. “Hello.”

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Where is Jake?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Jake would be flirting somewhere in the office,” I say quietly. “Look for a good-looking woman, and you will find him.” I point in the direction of Jake with my pen.

Jameson inhales sharply as he glares over at Jake as he talks to a blonde, completely unaware that he is being watched. Jameson’s eyes flick to Tristan, and they both give a subtle shake of their heads.

“Tristan, I was wondering if I can see you for a few moments at some point this afternoon, please?” I ask.

“Yes, of course. Come up in half an hour.”

Jameson’s eyes stay fixed on me for a beat longer than necessary, as if he’s waiting for me to say something. I smile warmly as I hide my anger. Maybe he’s right, and I really am a bitch. “Bye.”

“Goodbye,” he says as he turns and walks over toward Jake.

I smile as I watch the moment Jake sees him coming and how fast he jumps up from the corner of that desk. Jameson says something to him, and then I watch as Jake is marched to the elevator.

I hope they fire him. He’s definitely not worried about the enormity of this case.

Forty minutes later, I knock on Tristan’s door. “Come in,” he calls.

“Hello.” I smile.

“Hi, Emily.” He gestures to his desk. “Come take a seat.”

I sit down. “I just wanted to keep you updated on something that happened yesterday that felt out of the ordinary.”

“Great, okay.” He holds his pen in his hands. “What is it?”

“Hayden came and asked me for my stories early.”

He frowns as he listens.

“It felt weird that he needed them early. So . . . I lied and said it wasn’t ready yet.”

“And?”

“And there was no fake news today.”

He narrows his eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m grasping at straws, but it kind of felt like the fake news stories only go to print if they are in by a certain time.”

“Interesting. That’s great work.” He thinks for a moment. “Hold the story back today so we can test the theory, and I will start to dig up some info on Hayden. Good work.”

I stand.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

“Yes, why?”

His eyes hold mine for a beat, and I know that Jameson has said something about our fight this morning. “Just checking.”

“Everything’s great.”

“Good.”

“See you later.” I bounce out of the office like I don’t have a care in the world.

It’s late Friday night, and I stare at the television, my mind in a blurred haze. I haven’t heard from Jameson since our fight on Wednesday morning. I’ve seen him in passing at work, but that’s all.

Maybe that’s it—maybe I won’t see him again.

On Wednesday, the romantic in me was convinced he had real feelings for me and that he would come back begging. On Thursday, I decided that the man has deep emotional flaws if he couldn’t see he had feelings for me.

Today . . . I wonder if I meant anything at all. Maybe I’ve looked at the whole thing through rose-colored glasses? All along he’s given me signs, and like a fool, I’ve ignored every one of them.

He leaves for London on Monday, I think—not that I would know if his plans have changed.

My mind goes back to the flight where we met, and now that I know the life that he leads . . . I can see it all so clearly.

He didn’t ask for my number because he didn’t want anything—he even said that was the reason why. But I never thought that he actually meant he didn’t want anything. I thought there was an ulterior motive and that was just the lie he used to cover it. Maybe some people are just wired never to want more. Or maybe he just hasn’t met the right person yet.

So many maybes.

My door buzzes, and I frown and get up and push the button. “Hello.”

“Hey.” The voice is distorted.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,” he pants.

“Jameson?”

“You expecting someone else?” he says, obviously annoyed.

I smile, buzz him in, and run into the bedroom to take off my ragged nightdress that has hot chocolate spilled down the front of it. I flap my arms around in a panic and grab a towel off the rack. I wrap it around my chest as if I just got out of the shower. It’s a lot better than a soiled nightdress with dancing teddy bears on it. Why my grandma thinks dancing teddies is something I need, I’ll never know.