His lips come to my ear from behind. “Lovely to meet you, Emily. We will meet again. I’ll make sure of it.” His breath prickles my neck, and traitorous goose bumps scatter up my arms.
“Don’t bother,” I sneer, annoyed by my physical reaction to him.
My heart is hammering. No wonder poor Jameson is stressed to the max. He’s dealing with complete and utter snakes here.
Good grief, I’m completely rattled.
I get my drink and go back to talking to Lauren, although my mind is anywhere but on our conversation.
That fucking asshole Gabriel is sabotaging Jameson’s company and is openly making a play for his women.
Woman.
I feel outraged on his behalf, and I want to march over and tell Jameson what just happened, but then I don’t want to stress him out. But maybe that’s exactly what Gabriel wants—an open war.
Shit . . . this is hectic.
From my place by the bar, I watch as person after person goes and strategically says hello to the Miles family at their table, as if wanting to be acknowledged by them. Tristan is all smiles and happy, and Jameson and his father are polite. It’s blatantly obvious to me that they are not at all seduced or fooled by the fake greetings and well wishes.
After the longest conversation in history, I make my way back to Jameson. I sit beside him, and he takes my hand in his and puts it on his thigh.
“Do you like these people here?” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “I like the people at this table.”
I look around nervously.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sensing that something is off.
“Nothing,” I whisper as I lean in and kiss him softly on the lips. “I don’t particularly like any of these people.”
“Me neither, and as long as you like me, that’s all that matters,” he murmurs.
I smile over at my beautiful man and lean up to whisper in his ear, “I more than like you.”
He squeezes my hand in his. “Two hours, and we can go,” he whispers.
“Good.”
Dinner has been served, we are on to dessert, and the award ceremony is about to take place.
The lights are dimmed, and the stage is lit up by a spotlight as they go through the categories. They must start with the smaller awards first.
Jameson sits and stares at the stage as he holds my hand on his large muscular thigh. He’s completely expressionless, and I have no idea what he’s thinking.
He does it so well, keeps his emotions completely under control. Tristan is laughing and talking about the categories with the other managers sitting at the table. He’s completely relaxed and having a good night.
How are two brothers so different?
Tristan is open and jovial, and Jameson is closed and hard . . . at least to the outside world.
Although, knowing what Tristan’s role is in the company—acquisitions—he has to be hard on some level. Perhaps even harder than the rest of them because he takes over companies and dissolves them. I think on it for a moment as I stare at Jameson. No, that’s impossible—nobody could be harder than Jameson. My eyes flick to his father, who wears the same steely face as he watches the stage . . . perhaps George is.
>
I think back to Jameson’s childhood and how he went to boarding school overseas with his brothers. How do you learn to be soft and nurturing when you’re in a cold school environment? I wonder if that is why he’s all or nothing with me.
Does he have to give himself permission to feel before he can physically do it?