The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“I got a name wrong in a story.”

Jameson’s unimpressed eyes hold mine.

“But it’s the weirdest thing,” I stammer. “Today the Gazette has published the same story . . . with my error in it.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Look, I don’t know, and I could be totally wrong, and I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, but I think . . .” I pause.

“You think what?” he snaps.

“I just know for certain that the Gazette didn’t get that story themselves, and they most definitely couldn’t make the same mistake as I have. The old lady in the story contacted me directly because she would only talk to Miles Media.” I put the Gazette down on the desk in front of him, and he reads it and stares at me for a moment as if processing my words.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I got the name wrong.” I point to the name where my mistake was made. “This here is my error.”

Jameson brushes his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip as he stares at the paper before him, deep in thought. “Thank you. I’ll discuss this with Tristan and get back to you.”

“Okay.” I stand. “I’m sorry for making the error. It was unprofessional, and it won’t happen again.” My eyes go to Jameson, and I wait for him to say something. Is that it?

“Goodbye, Emily,” he says flatly.

Oh, he’s dismissing me. “Goodbye.” I turn, feeling dejected, and make my way downstairs. I don’t know whether I just did the right thing by telling him my theory. Maybe it will only work against me.

It’s four o’clock, and I’m drinking my afternoon coffee. My phone rings, and I answer it. “Hello.”

“Hello, Emily, this is Sammia. Mr. Miles would like to see you in his office, please.”

I frown. “Now?”

“Yes, please.”

r /> “Okay. I’m on my way up.”

Ten minutes later, I knock on Jameson’s door. “Come in,” he calls.

I walk in and find him sitting behind his large desk. His face breaks into a sexy smile as his eyes find mine. “Hello.”

My stomach dances with nerves. “Hi.”

“Have you had a good day?” he asks, and in slow motion I watch as his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He’s different this afternoon. He has a playful air about him.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Tristan, and we have a special project that we would like you to work on,” he says as he leans back in his chair.

“You do?”

“Yes. We want you to write a story to publish.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I shrug. “What’s the story on?”

Jameson narrows his eyes as he thinks. “I was thinking . . . something along the lines of lovebites.”

I frown in confusion. “Love bites?”

Amusement flashes across his face as if he’s trying to keep it straight. “Lovebites, one word. Plural.”