The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)
“And I deserve someone who knows that I’m worth the risk.”
He clenches his jaw as he watches me.
“You’re just not brave enough to love me.”
“That’s not fair,” he whispers.
“No.” I shake my head softly. “Falling in love with you is what isn’t fair. I never stood a chance . . . you knew that all along. You keep your heart in a tightly sealed Miles-High icebox, only to be looked at.”
His face falls, and I turn and walk from his office. I close the door quietly on my way out, and I stare at it for a moment as I gather the gumption to walk out of his office for the last time. In a strange kind of irony, this has been the best and worst time of my life.
Goodbye, Mr. Miles.
I will always miss you.
Jameson
With a tight chest, I watch Emily leave the office. The door clicks closed, and the walls begin to close in around me.
On autopilot, I pour myself a scotch and walk to the window. I stare out over New York as I fight an overwhelming sense of sadness.
She’s gone.
Knock, knock. Tristan appears and smiles broadly as he sees my drink. “We celebrating already?”
“Seems that way.”
He looks around. “Where’s Emily?”
“She left.” I sip my scotch and feel the warmth of the amber fluid. I stare at it in the glass. “She resigned. Effective immediately.”
“What?” His face falls. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s for the best.”
“What the fuck? How is it for the best?”
“We were never going to work, Tris; you knew that.” I pause. “There’s always going to be an asshole like Ferrara prepared to step on her to bring me down. I don’t want her dragged through the mud any further.”
“Is that what you’re telling yourself?” he huffs.
I stare out the window.
“I don’t fucking get you, man; you’re madly in love with her. Why are you really letting her go?”
I pause as I contemplate his question. “She deserves better than the life I can give her.”
“Fuck off,” he scoffs. “She couldn’t get a better life than the one you could give her. She would never want for anything.”
“It’s not the money she wants,” I mutter dryly.
“What does she want?”
“Things . . .” I frown as I try to articulate my thoughts. “Things . . . I’m incapable of giving her.”
“Like what?”
“Time.”