The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“Thank you.” He smiles as he takes it from me. “I would prefer to.”

Jeez. He got offended that I wanted to carry my own bag. What is this alternate universe?

We get into the swanky elevator, and the attendant already knows what floor to take me to. He must know Alan.

I hold my breath, nervous as we ride in silence. We get to the floor, and I tentatively follow Alan as he opens the door. “Mr. Miles shouldn’t be long. He’s still at the office. His call is going longer than he expected.”

“Thank you.” I smile.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, all good.”

With a courteous nod, he closes the door and leaves me alone. I turn to see the lamps strategically on, creating a breathtaking canvas to the view. The twinkling lights over New York are nothing short of spectacular. I take my phone out and snap some pictures. I couldn’t be such a fangirl when he is here.

I walk into the bedroom and put my bag into the empty walk-in closet, and then I walk into his. Suits and business shirts are strategically lined up, and there are rows and rows of expensive polished shoes.

I run my hand over the sleeves of the suits as I look around. I open the top drawer of the dresser, and I smile at his over-the-top organization. His ties are all rolled and displayed as if this is a luxury men’s boutique. Watches . . . I count them. Ten expensive watches are lined up. And then I see something rolled up next to his watches. My heart stops when I see the initials.

E.F.

My scarf.

He kept it.

Not only did he keep it, but it’s also with his special things. I pick it up and hold it in my hands as I stare at it. My eyes close, and I inhale deeply; the faint smell of my perfume still lingers.

I didn’t imagine it back then. He was right there with me. I smile broadly and put the scarf back where it was and carefully close the drawer.

I don’t know what to do with this information, but I’m pretty damn pleased with my find. My heart is racing.

He kept it.

I walk through the apartment as I look around. I run my hand over the heavy marble countertops in the kitchen and smile at the sheer luxury of the place.

I wonder if he has eaten.

I open the fridge, but it’s surprisingly sparse. There is chicken and a few ingredients. I open the pantry and find some other things. I glance at the wine fridge and frown—it’s full.

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.”