The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“Because we’re going off the grid.”

“Emily Foster, this isn’t off the grid. This is a recipe for instantaneous death.”

I slump in the seat and pull a whiny face. “You promised. It’s three days, Jameson, and then I’ll come back and move in.”

He puts his hands on his hips and rolls his eyes, and he knows I’ve got him. He did promise.

I toot the horn, and he comes around to the driver’s side and opens the door.

“What are you doing?” I frown.

“Driving.”

“Do you know how to drive a column shift?”

“A what?” He frowns.

I point to the gear stick on the steering wheel.

His face screws up. “Is this even legal to have on the road?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

“Then get out. I’m driving.” He pulls me from the car, and I jump around to the passenger side and climb in.

He gets in and goes through the gears with a look of sheer concentration on his face.

Alan and I giggle at each other as we wait for him to work it out.

“Okay, I’ve got this,” replies Jameson Miles, the control freak.

“Let’s go,” I sing. “Toot the horn for Alan.”

Jameson looks over at me deadpan, and I do a “toot the horn” signal that I used to do to passing trucks when I was a child.

“Emily, I don’t know what that means, but it’s a surefire way to get thrown in the trunk.”

Alan bursts out laughing again, and I bounce in the seat in excitement. “Bye, Alan,” I call. He waves.

Jameson stops and calls to Alan through the open window. “Have your phone on. We’re going to need you to pick us up from the side of the road in approximately seventeen miles when we break down.”

Alan and I laugh again, and as Alan waves, Jameson bunny hops the pickup out of the parking lot.

We get to the security gates, and he’s too high and can’t swipe his card. “Fuck this piece of junk,” he mutters under his breath as he puts the car in park and gets out to open the gates. He swipes his card, and the gates slowly open. He jumps back in and revs the truck, and it bunny hops up the driveway to the sound of gears crunching.

“Fuck.” He winces. “Who owns this piece of shit, anyway?” he asks as we pull out into the New York traffic.

“Michael, Molly’s husband.”

His eyes flick to me. “Isn’t that the fucking idiot who OD’d on Viagra, and you had to take him to the emergency room?”

“That’s him.” I smile.

“Figures,” he mutters as he drives. “Okay, where are we going?”

I pull up my maps on my phone. “Okay . . . we need to get on the interstate.”

He looks at me in question.