The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

“Hmm . . . not sure, really. I’m feeling like sushi, but then”—she grimaces—“I can’t be bothered to walk to the good place.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a trek.” I think for a moment. “What about Denver’s?”

She screws up her face, as if I’m stupid. “Don’t you remember last time we went there?”

“No, what happened?”

“Death by risotto.” She widens her eyes. “We nearly died that day, Claire.”

I giggle. “Oh, that’s right. How could I ever forget that?” We had risotto, and it upset our stomachs so bad that we were lying on my office floor groaning for an hour.

“What appointment do you have?”

“Oh.” I try to think on my feet. “Doctor. Just an annual checkup.” My phone beeps with a text, and I see the name Tristan light up the screen. I turn it over so that she can’t see his name.

“Cool,” she says as she walks toward the door.

“What are you going to have?” I call. “Death by risotto or good sushi?”

She shrugs. “Hmm, probably mediocre sushi from around the corner. Save my feet.”

“Mediocre sushi is better than no sushi at all,” I reply.

“This is true.” She disappears out the door, and I read my text.

Anderson,

Your lunch date is at

Dream Downtown at 1pm.

Tris.

xo

I smile and glance at my clock. Hmm, that’s a weird place to have lunch. Must be so that nobody sees us. One hour until I get to see him.

I walk into the foyer of the Dream Downtown hotel right at one o’clock.

“Hello.” I hear his deep voice behind me.

I spin toward him, and my heart catches in my throat. He’s wearing a gray suit

and a cream shirt with a navy tie. His dark curled hair is unruly, and he looks completely edible. “Hi.” I smile.

His hungry eyes drop down my body. “I’ve already ordered lunch for us.”

“You have?”

He glances toward the reception desk, as if guilty of a sinister crime. “Yes, it’s in the private dining room.”

“Oh.” I frown.

“This way, please.” He turns and walks off toward the elevator, and I follow him. We get in. He pushes the number seven, the doors close, and we begin to go up.

“Where is this . . . private dining room?” I ask.

“I can’t tell you,” he says dryly. “It’s private.”