The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“Yes, I thought I might start hiking up mountains and camping there and stuff. Making fire with my bare hands and whatnot.”

I smirk

as I walk in front of him, unable to help it. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. You see, I’m becoming one with nature.”

“You. One with nature. I’d like to see that,” I mutter dryly.

“Okay, we can hike up a mountain this weekend. How’s Mount Kosciuszko?”

“I’m busy,” I say as I keep walking.

“Oh, that’s right; we are going to your parents this weekend.”

“You’re not coming, Jameson.”

“Your mother said I could when I spoke to her earlier.”

I spin on the spot toward him. “You called my mother?”

“No, but I will if you don’t have dinner with me.” He smiles hopefully.

I stare at him. “Jameson, if you think the Kung Fu Panda sending me a cake and calling me a cheesecake can reverse the damage you have done, you are seriously deluded.”

He takes my two hands in his. “I don’t, Em, but please . . . just let me say what I need to say.”

I stare at him.

“And then if you don’t want to see me again, I’ll stop following you.” His eyes hold mine. “We need to talk about this; you know we do.”

I roll my eyes.

“Please?” He bats his eyelashes to try and be cute; it’s annoying that he is.

“Fine. You have ten minutes.” I sigh.

“Where do you want to go?” He smiles.

“Wherever is easiest.”

“Okay.” He looks around. “How about that Italian restaurant across the street?”

“Fine.” He tries to take my hand, and I snatch it away. “You have got to be kidding,” I snap.

“Jesus, calm down,” he mutters.

I follow him across the street and into the restaurant, and we take a seat at the back of the restaurant. It’s small and darkened with candles on the tables. Red tablecloths decorate the tables. It’s nothing like the usual upmarket Italian that he takes me to, but it will have to do.

“Can I get you some drinks?” the waiter asks.

Jameson smirks and gestures to me. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

I stare at him for a moment and open my menu. “All right, we’ll have a bottle of the Henschke Hill of Grace, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The waiter disappears out the back to the bar.

Jameson’s eyes come to me, and he smiles softly and takes my hands over the table.