The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

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.

I slide in, and he gets in beside me, and then he picks up my hand and takes it in his and rests them on his lap. Okay . . . he’s touchy. What does that mean?

I don’t know what to say or where this sits in my playing-hard-to-get act, but the warmth of his touch is so comforting that I let him. The limo drives through the city, and I stare out the window as a million thoughts run through my head.

Tonight is important; we either have to come to some sort of understanding or cut our losses. We can’t keep fighting over nothing like we do.

The car comes to a stop, and the driver opens the door. I climb out, and Jameson takes my hand and leads me into a fancy restaurant, Lucino’s.

“Booking for Miles,” he says as he holds my hand tightly in his.

“This way, sir.” The waiter smiles as he leads us through the restaurant to a cozy little table in the corner. He pulls out my chair, and I take a seat.

Jameson sits opposite me; the restaurant is dark, with candles flickering on the tables and fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. It’s very romantic.

Don’t get excited. It’s probably just a coincidence.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the waiter asks.

“Yes, we’ll have a bottle of S Salon please.” He closes the menu and hands it over.

I stare at him. Here we go again.

The waiter disappears, and Jameson’s big blue eyes come to mine. He takes my hand over the table again. “Hello.” He smiles softly, as if finally relaxing.

Drop arguing about the drinks. It doesn’t fucking matter who orders the drinks. “Hi.” I smile.

&nb

sp; He dusts his thumb over the back of my knuckles as his eyes search mine. “How are you?”

“Good.”

Oh, his touch makes me weak. I just want to blurt out that I’m lying and that I’ve had a shit week and he’s the king of Twatsville.