The Stopover (The Miles High Club #1) - T L Swan Page 0,89

that’s the stylists with your dresses,” he says.

“Your masseuse is set up in the end room.”

He kisses me again. “Let them in, and choose what you want.”

“Jay,” I whisper as my eyes search his. This change in him is confusing me.

“Get a few.” He grabs my behind. “I’m going to take a quick shower.” He disappears up the hall, and I open the front door.

My face falls when I see the two gorgeous women pushing a huge garment rack of gorgeous dresses. “Hello.” One is tall with long dark hair, and the other is blonde and beautiful. Both have that trendy, confident vibe.

“Hello, Mr. Miles ordered some dresses,” the blonde says. “I’m Celeste, and this is Saba.”

“Yes, please come in,” I whisper, embarrassed. “I’m Emily.” We shake hands.

God, don’t tell me they are going to watch me try this shit on? How mortifying. “Just in here.” I show them to the living area, and they start to unpack shoes and accessories as I watch awkwardly. This seems all very over the top.

“Back in a moment.” I smile.

I turn and take off up to the bedroom, and I burst into the bathroom to find Jay washing under the shower. “What the hell is going on?” I whisper in a panic.

“What?” He frowns, totally oblivious.

“Two Penthouse Pets are out there with a load of dresses that are way too exotic for me, and I’m driving around in a fucking space machine, and you’re saying I’m moving in, and I’m freaking the fucking hell out, Jameson,” I blurt out in a rush.

He smirks as he turns the taps off. “Just go out there, and pick what you like, Emily. Don’t overthink this.”

“Don’t overthink this,” I whisper. “It’s overthunk already.”

“Overthunk isn’t a word,” he says casually as he dries himself.

“Oh my God,” I stammer in a fluster at his lack of care, and I storm back out to the stylists. “Sorry,” I say as I stand next to the rack of clothes. I twist my fingers nervously in front of me.

“Tell me about your style.” The blonde smiles. “What makes you pop?”

I stare at her. Oh jeez. What the fuck is this bullshit? “Umm.” I look at the dresses on the rack.

“What makes you come alive and feel sexy?” the brunette gushes. “When are you living your best life?”

Oh, Jesus . . . not this. “I’ll just”—I gesture to the rack of clothes—“see what I like.”

I begin to flick through the dresses. Wow . . . they’re all beautiful.

“Anything you like, sweetheart?” I hear Jameson’s deep voice purr from behind me.

I turn to see him with a white towel around his waist. His hair is wet, and his tanned muscles are bulging. He looks fucking edible.

The two bimbos’ eyes bulge from their sockets. “Hello, Mr. Miles,” they both stammer as their eyes drop down his body.

“Hello.” He smiles sexily.

I look at him deadpan. Is he for real? “I’m not sure. I like everything,” I snap as I turn back to the rack.

In a fucking towel . . . what next?

Ugh.

He comes behind me and puts one hand on my hip as he goes through the rack. “We’ll take this one, this one . . . this one.” He scans the rest of the rack. “And all of these from here on.”

“Yes, sir,” they both gush.

His eyes go over the shoes and lingerie they have laid out on the coffee table.

“We’ll take all of the lingerie and whatever shoes Emily chooses.” His eyes come to me, and he smiles and leans in and kisses me. “Done.”

The two women hold their breath as they watch.

His hand drops to my behind, and he gives me a firm squeeze. “Nice to meet you, girls,” he says before he saunters up the hall for his massage.

I turn back to the girls as they watch him disappear in awe.

Good grief.

I think I just met the real Jameson Miles . . . in all his glory.

Chapter 17

I stir the mushroom sauce with my mind in overdrive.

Jameson’s different . . . I’m talking Twilight Zone different. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or the beginning of the end for us. Just when I get used to his old weirdness, he ups the ante.

The masseuse has just left, and he’s in the shower again as he washes the oil off. I’m not going in there because we will end up having sex, and dinner is nearly ready . . . and I want to talk to him without my arousal high