The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

I stare at her. Oh jeez. What the fuck is this bullshit? “Umm.” I look at the dresses on the rack.

“What makes you come alive and feel sexy?” the brunette gushes. “When are you living your best life?”

Oh, Jesus . . . not this. “I’ll just”—I gesture to the rack of clothes—“see what I like.”

I begin to flick through the dresses. Wow . . . they’re all beautiful.

“Anything you like, sweetheart?” I hear Jameson’s deep voice purr from behind me.

I turn to see him with a white towel around his waist. His hair is wet, and his tanned muscles are bulging. He looks fucking edible.

The two bimbos’ eyes bulge from their sockets. “Hello, Mr. Miles,” they both stammer as their eyes drop down his body.

“Hello.” He smiles sexily.

I look at him deadpan. Is he for real? “I’m not sure. I like everything,” I snap as I turn back to the rack.

In a fucking towel . . . what next?

Ugh.

He comes behind me and puts one hand on my hip as he goes through the rack. “We’ll take this one, this one . . . this one.” He scans the rest of the rack. “And all of these from here on.”

“Yes, sir,” they both gush.

His eyes go over the shoes and lingerie they have laid out on the coffee table.

“We’ll take all of the lingerie and whatever shoes Emily chooses.” His eyes come to me, and he smiles and leans in and kisses me. “Done.”

The two women hold their breath as they watch.

His hand drops to my behind, and he gives me a firm squeeze. “Nice to meet you, girls,” he says before he saunters up the hall for his massage.

I turn back to the girls as they watch him disappear in awe.

Good grief.

I think I just met the real Jameson Miles . . . in all his glory.

Chapter 17

I stir the mushroom sauce with my mind in overdrive.

Jameson’s different . . . I’m talking Twilight Zone different. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or the beginning of the end for us. Just when I get used to his old weirdness, he ups the ante.

The masseuse has just left, and he’s in the shower again as he washes the oil off. I?

??m not going in there because we will end up having sex, and dinner is nearly ready . . . and I want to talk to him without my arousal high clouding my brain cells.

It happens a lot with him.

He walks back out in his towel, and his eyes find me across the room. He gives me a slow, sexy smile.

“Can you not walk around in a towel when we have visitors, please?” I snap.

He smirks.

“Those two ditzy shoppers are at home going to town on their vibrators at this very moment as they picture you in that white towel.” I roll my eyes. “Living their”—I hold my fingers up to accentuate my point—“best life.”