“Coffee for Emily,” the cashier calls.
“Thank you.” I take my coffee and head back out into the rain, confused as all hell.
It’s one o’clock, and I’m on my lunch break. I arrive at the top floor and walk through to reception. “Hello.” I smile nervously. “I’m here to see Mr. Miles. It’s an urgent matter.”
I’ve been racking my brain all day, and the only theory I can come up with isn’t pretty. I need to talk to Jameson.
The blonde receptionist smiles. “Just a moment, please. Your name is?”
“Emily Foster.”
She pushes the intercom. “Mr. Miles, I have an Emily Foster here to see you.”
“Send her in,” his velvety voice purrs without hesitation.
I feel my stomach dip with nerves, and I follow her out into the corridor and across the marble. Damn it, I still haven’t bought rubber-soled shoes yet. I try to tiptoe so I don’t click as I walk. “Just knock on the end door.”
Holy shit. My heart begins to pump, and I force a smile. “Thank you.”
She disappears up the hall, and I close my eyes as I stand in front of the door, bracing myself. Okay, here goes.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in,” I hear Jameson call. I scrunch my eyes shut as nerves dance deep in my stomach.
I open the door, and there he sits in a navy suit. With his white shirt, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, he looks like God’s gift to women. Maybe he is. “Hello, Emily,” he whispers as his sexy eyes hold mine.
“Hello.”
Jameson stands and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us. “Please, take a seat.”
I fall into the chair, and he sits behind his desk and leans back in his chair; his eyes don’t leave me.
“I wanted to see you about something,” I say as I glance at the glass of scotch beside him. I don’t know what kind of work has scotch involved, but where’s my glass?
I could do with a drink or ten right now.
He sits back and smirks as if amused.
“Umm.” I pause and swallow the sand in my throat. “So something has happened, and I know I could get into trouble for it, but I feel like you need to know,” I blurt out in a rush.
“Such as?”
“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.”
“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.”
I stare at him for a moment in confusion. I don’t get it.
Oh my God. He’s talking about the hickey I gave him. Of all the nerve. Trust him to bring that up.
I tilt my chin to the sky in defiance. “I think I’m better equipped to write a story on premature ejaculation. That way you could help me with it.” I smile sweetly.
Jameson’s eyes dance with delight. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I reply straight faced. “News stories are so much better when they have evidence to back them up.”
Amusement crosses his face as he sips his scotch. I have no idea what’s going through that head of his this afternoon. Maybe he’s had too many scotches. We stare at each other, and I want to blurt out, “Did you ever think of me?” But I can’t because this is work, and I’m acting uninterested. Actually, let me rephrase that. I’m not interested—I’m slightly fascinated. Huge difference.
“How was your weekend?” he asks.
“Fine.”
His eyebrow rises. “Just fine?”
I nod. “Uh-huh.” I don’t want to tell him that I broke up with Robbie, but then I don’t want to lie to him either.
“You got back Sunday night?”
“Yes.”
His eyes hold mine, and I know he wants to ask about Robbie and me but is holding his tongue.
“How was your weekend?” I ask.
“Great,” he replies as his eyes drop to my lips. “I had a great weekend.”
I frown. Does great mean just generally great, or does great mean “I had great hot sex with a gorgeous, great woman all weekend”?
Stop it.
“Sorry about that,” Tristan says as he breezes into the room. He smiles warmly and shakes my hand. “I’m Tristan.” He’s slightly younger than Jameson, and his hair is a lighter brown and has a curl to it. His eyes are big and brown. He’s very different from Jameson but has that same power thing going on.