The Stopover (The Miles High Club #1) - T L Swan Page 0,18
sensible working earrings.
Right.
I’ll wash my hair and curl it in the morning. I look at my reflection and hold my hair up in a high ponytail. Yes . . . high ponytail. He likes high ponytails. Stop it.
I sit on the end of my bed and look around my little apartment. It’s one bedroom and on the thirtieth floor—tiny and quaint. It is modern, though, and is in a nice building. It’s different from what I’m used to; this New York–living thing is all so foreign, living alone and drinks and places to go on a Monday night. I pick up my phone and flick through my messages. My three best girlfriends all messaged me tonight to see how my day was. So did my mom. Robbie didn’t.
Sadness sweeps over me. What’s going on with us? Maybe I should call him. I am the one who left, after all. I dial his number, and it rings. Eventually, he picks up.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” I smile. “How are you?”
“Sleeping,” he mutters. “What time is it?”
My face falls as I glance at my watch. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, no matter. I’ll call you tomorrow, babe.”
My heart drops. “Okay.” I pause. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Bye.” He hangs up.
I exhale heavily. “My first day at work went great; thank you for asking,” I mutter dryly.
With a heavy heart and a stomach full of nerves, I crawl into bed, and I smile into the darkness as I remember my night with Jim.
I’ve thought of him many times when I’m alone at night. He was hands down the most amazing sexual experience of my life—not that I’ll ever admit that to anyone, but I know it myself. I’m going to see him in the morning. I feel the nerves dance in my stomach. I wonder what he’s going to say?
Jameson
I sit at my desk and go through the folder, Emily Foster’s file. I read through her details, school grades, references, and then her application letter.
Was this the job she was trying to interview for twelve months ago?
Buzz.
I press the intercom to security on the ground floor, and I glance up at the mirror on the wall and push the remote. It instantly turns into a television screen. “Yes.”
“We have an Emily Foster here to see you, sir.”
I catch sight of her, and I smile. There she is. “Send her up.”
I watch as she is led through to the elevator with the guard, and he puts her into my elevator. I make my way out into reception, and soon the doors open, and she comes into view.
“Hello.” I smirk.
“Hi,” she whispers. She looks nervous.
I hold out my hand and gesture toward my office. “Please come through.”
She walks in front of me, and my eyes drop to her backside. She’s wearing a black fitted dress, sheer stockings, and high-heeled pumps, and her hair is in a bouncy ponytail . . . just ready to drag down to my . . . stop it.
“Take a seat,” I say as I sit down at my desk.
She takes a seat and clutches her bag on her lap as her eyes find mine.
I swivel on my chair as I watch her. She’s as gorgeous as I remember, and a potent sexual aura oozes out of her like a concealed weapon.
Long dark hair, brown eyes, and big fuckable lips. I’ve thought of her often—she was impossible to forget.
Nobody has ever ridden my cock the way she did, not before, not since. Not ever.
The hickey on my neck wasn’t the only thing she branded me with that night.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks softly.
The sound of her voice has a physical effect on me. I remember her sex talk and what a turn-on it was to hear her sweet voice say such dirty things.
“Yes.” I stare at her. “I did.” Emily was the first woman I have been with in a long time who had no idea who I was. Strangely enough, I didn’t need to be anyone that night.
Being Jim was enough.
“What about?”
I sit back in my chair, annoyed with her attitude. The majority of women gush over me—this one, not so much.
“What are you doing in New York?” I ask her to try to make polite conversation.
“You asked me that yesterday,” she snaps. “Get to the point.”
“I am asking you again now. Stop with the fucking attitude.”
She narrows her eyes as if annoyed.
I sit forward in my seat. “What is your problem?” I sneer.