The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

I get a vision of Jameson oiled up on the table and another woman roaming her hands over his body; my stomach clenches as I picture it so clearly. My mind’s playing evil games with me and showing me the worst reality-porn scenario in history.

Jim . . . being touched by another woman.

Is she dressed while she massages him? Do they talk? Do they laugh like we do?

I need to stop this; it’s so destructive. I want a man who doesn’t even exist.

The driver opens the front door of the building, and I watch in slow motion as Jameson Miles walks out, navy suit, perfect posture, dark hair . . . emanating power.

Everyone stops what they are doing and watches him get into the back of the limo. His driver shuts the door, and it slowly pulls out and disappears down the street.

I stare back at my ham-and-cheese toasted sandwich in front of me, my dinner. Deflation fills me. I just lost my appetite.

It’s three o’clock on Friday, and I stare at the bogus story in front of me. Ha . . . what a joke. I moved all the way to New York to make up fake news for a twat and his twat media company . . . and his twat brothers.

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.