The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

I get into the elevator and find myself smirking at the ground.

Stop it . . . he’s an asshole . . . never forget that.

It’s three o’clock, and I’m finishing a report for publication this week. I love this job. I mean, not as much as I loved Miles Media, but that ship has sailed—may as well make the most of it. The staff are all really friendly and nice and have welcomed me with open arms.

“Delivery for Emily Foster,” I hear.

I look up and see a man walking through the floor with a white box. What the hell?

“Oh, she’s in that office over there,” I hear someone say.

He knocks on my door. “Are you Emily Foster?”

“Yes.”

“I have a delivery for you.” He hands over the white box.

I take it from him. “Thank you.”

“Um.” He smirks, shuffling awkwardly in place. “It’s from the Kung Fu Panda.”

“What?”

“I was told to tell you that the Kung Fu Panda sent it.”

I try to hide my smile and fail miserably. “Thank you.” He leaves, and I open the box to find a huge caramel cheesecake and a small white card.

Cheesecake for my cheesecake.

xoxoxo

I close the box and smirk. He’s an idiot, and I’m not a cheesecake . . . if he thinks he can weasel his way back into my good book by being cute, he has another thing coming.

Kung Fu Panda . . . where the hell does he get this shit?

A girl from the office next door pops her head around the corner. “What’s that?”

“Cheesecake, want some?”

“Hell yeah, I’ll get the plates.” She disappears to the kitchen.

I stare at my phone for a moment. Should I text him and say thank you?

No, this is why he did it—to get a reaction. He knows I’ve got good manners and would never receive a gift without thanking him. He’ll be waiting for my call.

Well, too bad for the stupid Kung Fu Panda. More fool him.

He created this beast; he can live with my rudeness. He’s in the freezer.

At six o’clock in the evening, I make my way downstairs. I may have fixed my hair and applied some lipstick . . . not that I’ll ever admit to it.

I walk out of the building and out onto the street to see Jameson standing and leaning up against the wall. He’s wearing his gray suit, the one that I love. His dark hair hangs over his forehead, and his chiseled jaw does things to my insides. He smiles broadly and pushes off the wall when he sees me coming. How long has he been standing there? “Good afternoon, Ms. Foster.”

“I didn’t know that you knew kung fu,” I say as I walk past him.

“Oh, I do,” he says as he falls into step behind me. “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know. Did I tell you that I’m becoming an extreme sportist?”

I keep silent as I walk. It’s hard to keep a straight face when he’s in this mood.