The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“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?”

“Well . . .” I think for a moment. “It was my first car, and I’d only had it a week. I was driving with my friend, and the day was as hot as hell. We were on our way to buy some cheap jeans from a market, and the temperature gauge started overheating.”

He smiles as he listens.

“We pulled into a service station, and I called my dad, and he told me to put oil in it.” I shrug. “But we didn’t know where the oil went, so we assumed it went in the little hole that you measure it from.”