The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“Mr. Miles instructed me to drop you here this morning.”

“What . . . why?”

“He suggested that you have the day off.” He gestures with his hand for me to get out of the car.

“Huh?” I frown. “What’s going on, Alan?”

“I’m not sure, but Mr. Miles said that he didn’t want you to come into the office and that he will be in touch.”

I screw up my face. “Be in touch—what does that mean? Why can’t I go to the office? I’m confused.”

“You need to get out of the car, Emily,” he asserts.

“What?”

He gestures again with his hand, and I get out in a huff.

“Has something happened?” I stammer as I brush past him. “Is Jameson all right?”

“You need to speak to him, Emily.”

“Fine, I will,” I snap as I take out my phone and dial his number.

“Goodbye, Emily,” Alan says before getting into the limo and quickly pulling out.

Jameson’s phone rings out. I call again . . . it goes straight to voice mail. He’s switched it off.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, annoyed.

I go to call Sammia, his PA, but then realize that it’s only eight o’clock—she isn’t even at work yet.

What the hell is going on? I cross the street and half walk, half run to the corner paper stall. I see the front page of the Gazette, and the blood drains from my face as I see a half-page picture of Jake and me kissing.

“Dear God,” I whisper. I read the story.

Jameson Miles—Media Guru’s Fall from Grace

In what appears to be the final nail in Jameson Miles’s media coffin, his fiancée, Emily Foster, has been having a secret affair. The two have been spotted in various locations and were snapped holidaying in Italy two months ago. Leaked bank statements released today prove that Jameson Miles has been embezzling money and transferring it to an offshore account. The board is expected to fire him as CEO of Miles Media today, and criminal charges will be laid. Looks like Emily Foster jumped ship just in time.

What?

My hand goes over my mouth in horror.

Oh my God, poor Jameson. “I’m not his fiancée, you fucking idiots,” I sneer. “How many things can you possibly fuck up

in one story?”

I turn and begin to storm back to my apartment as I redial his number with a sense of urgency.

“Hey,” the paper man calls out to me. “You didn’t pay for that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologize as I rush back to pay. “I was distracted. Thank you.”

Jameson’s phone goes straight to voice mail once more.

What do I do? What do I do? My shoulder slams into a man as he walks past.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” he calls.