The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

Her name is Lara Aspin.

HR are searching for her job title in the morning,

I’ll keep you posted.

I smile, excited that I at least have a little lead. I have no idea what it means, but I guess it’s something. I text back.

Thanks.

I check my phone . . . no missed calls.

I turn the car on and pull out into the traffic, and a sense of dread begins to hang over me.

Nighttime is the worst; my bed without Jameson is cold. There’s a void where he’s supposed to be.

My heart is aching.

I’m losing hope for us . . . I miss him.

I lie on the couch and stare at the television. The cushion beneath my head is wet with tears.

It’s been three days since Jameson was hit by a car.

Six days since I’ve seen him . . . I can’t eat. I can’t sleep.

I’m in hell.

To make matters worse, I embarrassed myself last night by going to his apartment and crying into the security camera, begging for him to let me in.

He didn’t, and after half an hour his doorman ushered me out of the building.

I’m ashamed.

I don’t know what to do . . . he won’t see me; he won’t speak to me.

All the love and laughter we shared, reduced to nothing.

It’s like I never meant anything to him . . . maybe I didn’t?

I knew he had a reputation for being cold, but this . . . this coldness is next level.

How could he watch me on camera sob and beg and not even let me in?

I pick up my phone and text him.

I miss you.

I stare at my phone, and then I see the dots. I sit up . . . he’s typing something. My heart begins to race. This is the first time. I watch the dots roll as I wait . . . and then they stop.

Wait . . . what? Where is the text?

I wait.

The dots start again, and I smile through tears . . . yes. He’s replying. I wait and wait.

Then the dots stop once more.

“Send the text, damn it,” I snap.