The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

I haven’t seen Claudia again, so I have no idea what is going on with her, but the fact that Jameson wanted to see me tonight tells me that it’s nothing.

I hope it’s nothing . . . God, I hope it’s nothing . . . stop it.

I duck into the bathroom to give myself one last pep talk. I reapply my red lipstick, Jameson’s personal favorite, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My long dark hair is out and wavy. I wanted to wear a dress but didn’t want to seem too eager, so I finally decided to wear black fitted capri pants and a black silk shirt with the top button strategically undone. My black lace bra is just peeking through if I move the right way. I’m wearing his favorite fragrance and think I look sexy without trying to be sexy . . . is that even a thing?

God knows. I guess I’ll soon find out.

Don’t be needy . . . don’t be whiny . . . and don’t be overdramatic, I remind myself. Be sexy and alluring . . . like I was when we first met.

Right, I can do this.

I drop my shoulders, take a deep breath, and steel myself for the night ahead. This is literally a make-or-break situation. I need to remind him why he fell in love with me in the first place . . . how the hell has he forgotten?

That in itself is an issue . . . I close my eyes in disgust. Stop overthinking this.

I walk down the corridor and into the Clubhouse Bar. It’s busy and bustling. I walk in and take a seat in the corner at a bench-seat table for two. If he wants to see me, then he can find me. I’m on a stopover and totally oblivious to anything around me.

I take out my laptop and open my emails.

“Can I get you a drink?” the waiter asks as he approaches my table.

“Yes, please.” I smile as I hand him my credit card. “A top-shelf margarita, please.”

He smiles and, with a cheeky wink, walks away. Damn it, that Jameson Miles has spoiled me. I seem to have an addiction to top-shelf shit, and it just rolls off my tongue a little too easy now.

I turn my attention back to read my emails and pretend that they’re fascinating.

They’re not.

And what I really want to be doing is giving this place the once-over with an eagle eye . . . is he here?

The waiter returns with my drink. “Here you are, a top-shelf margarita.” He places it down onto the table. “And the gentleman at t

he bar asked that I deliver these to you.” He places a large bowl of strawberries and a dipping bowl of hot chocolate on the table.

My eyes rise to where he gestures, and I see Jameson sitting at the bar. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a white shirt that I bought him. His dark hair is messed to perfection. Our eyes lock, and he raises his glass and then takes a sip.

My stomach rolls in excitement. He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.

“Thank you,” I reply to the waiter, completely distracted by the beautiful specimen at the bar.

I sip my margarita as I try to keep the goofy smile from my face, and I turn back to my emails to act uninterested.

Strawberries with hot chocolate; there’s no way to eat them without slurping them up and looking like an animal.

I smirk . . . maybe that’s what he wants?

Game on.

With my eyes locked onto my computer screen, I pick up a strawberry and dip it into the hot chocolate and lick it and then place it seductively in my mouth. I suck the chocolate and rub it back and forth over my lips.

I take a sip of my margarita and then repeat the move.

I smile to myself . . . what the actual hell am I doing? I’m in an airport bar when I’m not flying anywhere, pretending not to know someone while he watches me go down on a fucking strawberry. This really is beyond bizarre.

If Molly and Aaron could only see me now.

The waiter arrives with another margarita. “Compliments from your friend at the bar.”