The Stopover

“Can you move?” a voice behind me growls.

Startled, I turn toward the man behind me in the line. “I’m sorry?” I say in a fluster. “Did you want to get past?”

“No. I want these fucking idiots at the desk to hurry up. I’m going to miss my damn plane.” He sneers, and I smell the alcohol wafting off him. “They make me sick.”

I turn back to the front. Great, a drunk in the check-in line. Just what I need.

Heathrow Airport is bustling. Bad weather has delayed most of the flights, and to be honest, I wish they would delay mine. Then I could turn around and go back to the hotel and sleep for a week.

I am not in the mood for this shit.

I hear the man turn and complain to the people behind him, and I roll my eyes. Why are people so damn rude?

For another ten minutes, I listen to him bitch, sigh, and moan until I can take it no longer. I turn to him. “They are working as fast as they can. There’s no need to be rude,” I snap.

“What?” he yells as he turns his anger on me.

“Manners are free,” I mutter under my breath.

“Manners are free?” he cries. “What are you, a schoolteacher? Or just a raving bitch?”

I glare at him. Oh, I dare all right. I’ve just spent the last forty-eight hours in hell. I flew across the world to go to a wedding, only to watch my ex-boyfriend drape himself over his new girlfriend. I’m in the mood to cut somebody today.

Don’t mess with me.

I turn back to the front as my fury begins to boil.

He kicks my suitcase at my feet, and I turn. “Stop it,” I snap.

He gets right up in my face, and I wince at the smell of his breath. “I’ll do whatever I fucking like.”

I see security come through the lounge as they watch him. The staff has seen what’s going on here and called for backup. I fake a smile. “Please don’t kick my bag, sir,” I say sweetly.

“I’ll kick whatever I fucking like.” He picks up my suitcase and throws it across the airport.

“What the hell?” I screech.

“Hey,” the man behind us cries. “Don’t touch her stuff. Security!” he says.

Mr. Drunk and Disorderly throws a punch at my savior, and a scuffle breaks out.

Security comes running in from everywhere, and I am pushed back as he throws punches and screams obscenities. Oh hell, I do not need this today.

Eventually they get him under control, and he is taken away in handcuffs. The kind security guard picks up my bag. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. “Come with me,” he says as he unhooks the rope on the line.

“Thank you.” I smile awkwardly at everyone else in the line. I hate jumping the queue, but at this point, I just don’t care. “Great.” I sheepishly follow him, and he takes me to a young man’s counter. He looks up and smiles broadly. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Look after her,” the security guard tells the ticket man, and he gives us both a wink and disappears through the crowd.

“Identification, please?” the man asks.

I scramble through my purse and dig out my passport and pass it over; he smiles as he looks at the photo. Oh man, that’s the worst photo in all of history. “Did you see me on Most Wanted?” I ask.

“Possibly. That photo: Is it even you?” He laughs.

I smile, embarrassed. “I hope not. I’m in trouble if it is.”

He types in my details. “Okay, so we have you flying to New York today with a . . .” He stops typing and reads.

“Uh-huh. Preferably not next to that man.”

“He won’t be going anywhere today,” he replies as he continues to type at a ridiculous speed. “Other than the lockup.”

“Why would you get drunk before coming to the airport?” I ask. “He hasn’t even been inside to the airport bars yet.”

“You would be surprised by what goes on around here,” he sighs.

I smile; this guy is nice.

He prints off my tickets. “I’ve upgraded you.”

“What?”

“First class, as an apology for him mishandling your bag.”

My eyes widen. “Oh, that’s not necessary . . . really,” I stammer.

He hands the tickets over and smiles broadly. “Enjoy your flight.”

“Thank you so much,” I gush.

He gives me a wink, and I could just reach over and hug him. But of course I won’t. I’ll pretend that cool things like this happen to me every day.

“Thanks again.” I smile.

“You have access to the VIP lounge, which is located on level one. Lunch and drinks are on the house in there. Have a safe flight.” With one last smile, he looks back to the line. “Next, please.”

I walk through the baggage checks with a huge goofy grin on my face.

First class—just what the doctor ordered.

Three hours later, I walk onto the plane like a rock star. I didn’t end up going into the VIP lounge because, well . . . I look like crap. My long dark hair is up in a high ponytail, and I’m wearing black leggings, a baggy pink sweater, and tennis shoes, but I did fix my makeup a little, so that’s something. If I had known I was going to be upgraded, I would have at least tried to look the part and worn something swanky instead of looking like a homeless person. But anyway . . . who cares? It’s not like I’m going to see anyone I know.

I hand my ticket over to the flight attendant. “Just through the left aisle and to the right.”

“Thanks.” I look at my ticket and walk through the plane and see my number.

1B.

Damn it, I don’t have a window. I get to my seat, and a man sitting next to the window turns to me. Big blue eyes greet me, and he smiles. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I say.

Oh no . . . I’m sitting next to God’s gift to women . . . only he’s hotter.

I look like shit. Fuck it.

I open the overhead, and he stands. “Here, let me.” He takes my bag from me and carefully places it up. He’s tall and built and wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt; he smells like the best aftershave in history.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I pull my hand through my ponytail, trying to smooth out the knots. I mentally kick myself for not wearing something better.

“Do you want the window seat?” he asks.

I stare at him as my brain misfires.

He gestures to the seat beside the window.

“You don’t mind?” I frown.

“Not at all.” He smiles. “I fly all the time. You can have it.”

I force a smile. “Thanks.” That was code for “I know you got upgraded, you poor homeless person, and I feel sorry for you.” I sit down in my seat and look nervously out the window, with my hands clasped in front of me on my lap.

“Are you going home?” he asks.

I turn to him. Oh, please don’t talk to me. You make me nervous just sitting there. “No, I’ve been at a wedding, and I have a job interview in New York on the way home. I’m only there for the day, and then I fly out again to LA. I live there.”

“Ah.” He smiles. “I see.”

I stare at him for a moment; I should ask him a question now. “Are . . . you going home?” I say.

“Yes.”

I nod, unsure what to say next, so I choose the lame option and stare back out the window.

The attendant walks around with a bottle of champagne and glasses.

Glasses. Since when do airlines give you a real glass?

Oh right, first class. I knew that.

“Would you like some champagne to take off with, sir?” the flight attendant asks him. I notice that her name tag says JESSICA.

“That would be lovely.” He smiles and turns to me. “Make that two, please.”

I frown as she pours two glasses of champagne and passes one to him and one to me. “Thank you.” I smile.

I wait for Jessica to move out of earshot. “Do you always order drinks for other people?” I ask.

He looks surprised by my statement. “Did it bother you?”

“Not at all,” I huff. Damn this Mr. Fancy Pants for thinking he can order for me. “I do like to order my own drinks, though.”

He smiles. “Well, you can order the next ones, then.” He raises his glass to me and smirks; then he takes a sip. He seems amused by my annoyance.

I stare at him deadpan. This could be victim number two of my cutting today. I am not in the mood for some rich old bastard to boss me around. I sip my champagne as I look out the window. Well, he’s not really old. Maybe mid- to late thirties. I mean, old compared to me; I’m twenty-five. But whatever.

“I’m Jim,” he says as he holds his hand out to shake mine.

Oh God, now I have to be polite. I shake his hand. “Hi, Jim. I’m Emily.”

His eyes dance with mischief. “Hello, Emily.”

His eyes are big, bright blue, and dreamy, the kind I could get lost in. But why is he looking at me like that?

The plane begins to travel slowly down the runway, and I look between the earphones and armrest. Where do these plug in? They’re high tech, the kind that overconfident YouTubers use. They don’t even have a cord. I look around. Well, this is stupid. How do I plug them in?

“They’re Bluetooth,” Jim interrupts me.

“Oh,” I mutter, feeling stupid. Of course they are. “Right.”

“You haven’t flown first class before?” he asks.

“No. I got an upgrade. Some weirdo threw my bag across the airport when he was drunk. I think the guy at the desk felt sorry for me.” I give him a lopsided smile.

He rolls his lips as if amused and sips his champagne; his eyes linger on my face as if he has something on his mind.

“What?” I ask.

“Perhaps the guy at the desk thought you were gorgeous and upgraded you to try to impress you.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” I sip my champagne as I try to hide my smile. That’s an odd thing to say. “Is that what you would do?” I ask. “If you were at the desk, would you upgrade women to impress them?”

“Absolutely.”

I smirk.

“Impressing a woman you’re attracted to is crucial,” he continues.

I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up with the conversation. Why does that statement sound flirty? “And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated.

His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.”

The air crackles between us, and I bite my lip to hide my goofy smile.

“You’re trying to impress me?” I ask.

He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “How am I doing?”

I smirk, unsure what to say.

“I’m simply saying that you’re attractive, nothing more and nothing less. Don’t read into it. It was a statement, not a question.”

“Oh.” I stare at him, lost for words. What do I even say to that? Statement, not a question . . . huh? Don’t read into it. This guy is weird . . . and utterly gorgeous.

The plane begins to take off with speed, and I hold on to my armrests and scrunch my eyes shut.

“You don’t like takeoffs?” he asks.

“Do I look like I like takeoffs?” I wince as I hang on for dear life.

“I love them,” he replies casually. “I love the feeling of power as it surges forward. That g-force throwback.”

Okay . . . why is everything coming out of his mouth sounding sexual?

God, I need to get laid . . . stat.

I exhale and stare out the window as we go higher and higher. I don’t have the energy for this guy to play cute today. I’m tired, I’m hungover, I look crappy, and my ex is a douche. I want to go to sleep and wake up next year.

I decide I’ll watch a movie. I begin to flick through the choices on the screen in front of me.

He leans over and says, “Great minds think alike. I’m watching a movie too.”

I fake a smile. Just stop being all hot and in my space. You’re probably married to a vegan yoga nut who does meditation and shit.

“Great,” I mutter deadpan. I should have flown coach; at least I wouldn’t have had to inhale the scent of beautiful man for eight long, sexless hours.

I scroll through my screen and then narrow it down to my choices.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

Pride and Prejudice.

The Heat.

Jumanji . . . well, that has the Rock in it—it has to be good.

Notting Hill.

The Proposal.

50 First Dates.

Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Pretty Woman.

Sleepless in Seattle.

Magic Mike XXL.

I smile at the choices, all of my favorites lined in a row; this flight is going to be a dream. I haven’t seen the sequel to Magic Mike yet, so I might start with that one. I glance over to look at what Jim has picked, and I see the heading come up.

Lincoln.

Ugh . . . a political movie. Who watches that stuff for fun? I should have known he’d be boring.

He reaches up and taps the screen, and I catch sight of his watch. A chunky silver Rolex. Ugh, and he has money too.

Typical.

“What are you going to watch?” he asks.

Oh no . . . I don’t want to appear ditzy. “I’m not sure yet,” I reply. Damn you . . . I want to watch men strip. “What are you watching?” I ask.

“Lincoln. I’ve been meaning to see it for a long time.”

“Sounds boring,” I say.

He smiles at my answer. “I’ll let you know.” He puts his earphones on and begins to watch his movie, and I scroll through my choices again. I really want to watch Magic Mike XXL. Does it matter if he sees? No . . . that’s just embarrassing. It makes me look desperate.

Who am I kidding? I am desperate. I haven’t seen a dick in over a year.

I tap on The Proposal. I’ll swap one fantasy for another. I’ve always dreamed of having Ryan Reynolds as my personal assistant. The movie begins, and I smile at the screen. I love this movie. No matter how many times I watch it, I always laugh. Gammy is my favorite.

“You’re watching a romance?” he asks.

“A rom-com,” I reply. For God’s sake, this guy is nosy.

He smirks as if he’s better than me.

“More champagne?” the flight attendant asks.

Blue Eyes looks over at me. “Here’s your chance to order for us.”

I stare at him flatly; all right, he’s beginning to piss me off now. “We’ll have two, please.”

“What do you like about rom-coms?” he asks as he keeps his eyes on the screen in front of him.

“Men who don’t talk during movies,” I whisper into my champagne glass.

He smiles broadly to himself.

“What do you like about . . .” I pause because I don’t even know what Lincoln is about. “Political films?” I ask. “The fact that they’re boring as all hell?”

“I just like true stories, regardless of what they are.”

“So do I,” I reply. “That’s why I like romance. Love is true.”

He chuckles into his glass as if amused.

I glance over at him. “What does that mean?”

“Rom-coms are as far from reality as you can get. I bet you’re the type who reads trashy romance novels too.”

I stare at him flatly. I think I hate this man. “I am, actually . . . and if you must know, I’m watching Magic Mike XXL after this so I can watch gorgeous men take their clothes off.” I sip my champagne in annoyance. “And I’ll smile through the whole damn thing, regardless of your snooty judgment.”

He laughs out loud, and it’s deep and strong and does things to my stomach.

I put my headphones back on and pretend to focus on my screen. I can’t, though, because I just totally embarrassed myself, and I can feel myself blushing.

Stop talking.

Two hours later, I sit and stare out the window. My movie is over, but his scent is not. It’s surrounding me, taunting me with things that I shouldn’t be thinking about.

How does he smell so good?

Unsure what to do without seeming awkward, I decide I’ll take a nap, try to sleep through the next few hours, but first I need to go to the bathroom. I stand. “Excuse me.”

He moves his legs a little but not enough for me to fit through, and I have to lean over him to get past. I stumble and fall and put my hand on his thigh; it’s large and hard to my touch. “I’m so sorry,” I stammer, embarrassed.

“That’s fine.” He smirks up at me. “More than fine.”

I stare at him for a moment. Huh?

“There’s a method to my madness.”

I frown. What does that mean? I make my way past him and go to the bathroom, and then I walk around and stretch my legs a little as I ponder that statement. I’m stumped—I’ve got nothing. “What did you mean by that?” I ask as I fall back into my seat.

“Nothing.”

“Did you give me the window seat so I would have to climb over you?”

He tilts his head to the side. “No, I gave you the window seat because you wanted it. Climbing over me was just an added bonus.”

I stare at him as I struggle to respond. Am I imagining this? Older rich guys don’t usually speak to me like this . . . at all. “Are you flirting with me, Jim?” I ask.

He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I don’t know. Am I?”

“I asked you first, and don’t answer my question with a question.”

He smirks as he turns his attention back to the television screen. “This is probably where you should start flirting back . . . Emily.”

I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I try to hide my stupid smile. “I don’t flirt. I either want a man or I don’t,” I announce.

“Is that so?” he says as if fascinated. “And how long after you meet a man do you make that decision?”

“Instantaneously,” I lie. That’s not true, but I’ll pretend. Faking confidence is my superpower.

“Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her.

“Of course, sir.”

His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?”

I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.”

He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him.

“What’s funny?” I ask.

“You are.”

“Why am I funny?” I frown.

“This sense of righteousness that you have.”

“Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.”

Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip. “What were you doing in London?”

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “I flew over for a friend’s wedding, and to be honest, I wish I hadn’t gone.”

“Why not?”

“My ex was there with his new squeeze, and he was being over-the-top affectionate with her to piss me off.”

“Which worked, obviously,” he adds as he tilts his glass toward me.

“Hmm.” I sip my drink in disgust. “Just a little.”

“What did she look like?”

“Long bleached-blonde hair and huge silicone lips and boobs and eyelashes and fake tan and everything I’m not.”

“Hmm.” He listens intently.

“Like Backseat Barbie on crack.”

He chuckles. “Everyone loves a Backseat Barbie.”

I look over at him in disgust. “This is probably where you should tell me that all men hate Backseat Barbies, Jim. Don’t you know anything about polite plane-conversation etiquette?”

“Obviously not.” He frowns as he considers my statement. “Why would I do that?”

I widen my eyes to accentuate my point. “To be nice.”

“Oh, right.” He frowns as if bracing himself to lie. “Emily . . . all men are repulsed by Backseat Barbies.”

I smile as I tip my glass to him. “Thank you, Jim.”

“Although . . .” He pauses for a moment. “If they give good head . . .”

What the hell?

I snort my champagne up my nose and choke. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear come out of his mouth. “Jim,” I splutter as it sprays everywhere.

He laughs as he grabs his napkins and hands them over, and I wipe the drink dribbling from my chin.

“Men who look like you are not supposed to talk about head.” I cough.

“Why not?” he asks incredulously. “And what do you mean, men who look like me?”

“All serious and stuff.”

He looks at me deadpan. “Define stuff.”

“You know, older, rich, and bossy.”

His eyes dance with delight. “And what gives you the impression that I’m rich and bossy?”

I exhale in an overexaggerated way. “You look rich.”

“How do I?”

“Your fancy watch. The cut of your shirt.” I glance down at his shoes. “I’ve never seen shoes like that before. Where did you even get those?”

“In a shop, Emily.” He looks at his watch. “And I’ll have you know that this watch was a gift from a girlfriend.”

I roll my eyes. “I bet she’s a vegan yoga nut.”

He smirks.

“I know your type of woman.”

“Really.” He leans closer. “Please go on—this character analysis is fascinating.”

I smile as a little voice from my subconscious screams, Stop drinking, fool! “I’m assuming you live in New York.”

“Correct.”

“In an apartment.”

“Affirmative.”

“You probably work at some ritzy company.”

He smiles; he likes this game. “Perhaps.”

“You would have a girlfriend or . . .” I glance down. “You don’t wear a wedding ring . . . so perhaps you cheat on your wife when you travel for work?”

He chuckles. “You really should make a profession out of this. I’m amazed at the accuracy.”

I like this game too; I smile broadly. “What do you think about me?” I ask. “What was your first impression when I walked onto the plane?”

“Well.” He frowns as he considers the question. “Do you want the politically correct version?”

“No. I want the truth.”

“Right . . . well, in that case, I noticed your long legs and the curve of your neck. The dimple in your chin. You are the most attractive woman I’ve seen in a long time, and when you smiled, it brought me to my feet.”

I smile softly as the air swirls between us.

“And then you spoke . . . and ruined everything.”

What?

I burst out laughing. “I ruined everything? How did I ruin everything?”

“You’re bossy, with a sarcastic snark.”

“What’s the problem with that?” I stammer in outrage.

“Well, I’m bossy and sarcastic.” He shrugs.

“And?”

“And I don’t want to date myself. I like sweet, demure girls, the ones who do what I say.”

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “The ones who clean the house and have sex on Saturdays.”

“Precisely.”

I laugh and hold my glass up to clink with his. “You’re not bad for a boring old guy with weird shoes.”

He laughs. “And you’re not bad for a young, hot smart-ass.”

“Do you want to watch Magic Mike XXL with me?” I ask.

“I suppose, although I should let you know . . . I am an ex-stripper myself, so this is nothing new for me.”

“Really?” I try to hide my smile. “You’re good on a pole?”

His eyes hold mine. “My pole work is the best in the country.”

The air crackles between us, and I have to concentrate on stopping my inebriated mouth from saying something slutty.

He pushes the screen and taps through to Magic Mike XXL . . . and I smile broadly. This man is so unexpected.

First class is definitely the way to fly.

Six hours later

“Okay, next question. The weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?” he whispers.

I smirk. “You can’t ask me that.”

“Yes, I can. I just did.”

“It’s rude.”

“Says who?” He looks around. “It’s just a question, and nobody is listening.”

Jim and I have talked and whispered and laughed our way through the entire flight. “Hmm.” I think out loud. “That’s a tough one.”

“Why?”

“I’m on a bit of a drought at the moment. I can hardly remember any sex.”

“How long?” He frowns.

“Oh.” I look to the ceiling as I think. “I haven’t had sex in like . . . eighteen months.”

His face falls in horror. “What?”

“It’s lame, isn’t it?” I wince.

“Very. You need to up your game. They’re very bad statistics, indeed.”

“I know.” I giggle. Boy . . . we’re so tipsy. “Why am I telling you all this stuff?” I whisper. “You’re just some random guy I met on a plane.”

“Who happens to be very interested in the subject.”

“Why is that?”

He leans in and whispers to me so that the flight attendants can’t hear us. “I don’t understand how someone as hot as you doesn’t get fucked three times a day.”

I stare at him as I feel a tingle all the way to my toes. Stop it. This guy is too old for me and so not my type.

His eyes drop to my lips, and the air between us zaps with electricity.

“How long are you in New York?” he asks.

I watch his tongue dart out and lick his bottom lip in slow motion. I can almost feel it between my . . . “Just the afternoon. I have my interview at six tonight, and then I catch the last flight out,” I whisper.

“Can you change your flight?”

Why? “No.”

He smirks as he watches me, and it’s obvious he’s imagining something.

“What?” I smile.

“I wish we were on a private jet.”

“Why is that?”

His eyes drop to my lips once more. “Because I’d break that drought of yours and initiate you into the Miles-High Club.”

I get a visual of climbing on top of him, right here, right now. “It’s Mile-High Club . . . not Miles,” I whisper.

“No . . . it’s Miles.” He smirks as his eyes darken. “Trust me—it’s Miles.”

Something inside me snaps, and suddenly I want to say something crazy and out of the ordinary. I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “You know, I’ve never fucked a stranger before.”

He inhales sharply as his eyes hold mine. “Do you want to fuck a stranger?” he murmurs as arousal thrums between us.

I stare at him. This is so out of character for me.

This man makes me . . .

“Don’t be shy,” he whispers. “Tell me, if we were alone right now . . .” He pauses as he chooses his words. “What would you give me, Emily?”

My eyes search his, and maybe it’s the alcohol or the lack of sex or the fact that I know I’ll never see him again . . . or perhaps I’m just a total ho. “Me,” I breathe. “I would give you me.”

Our eyes lock, and as if forgetting where we are, he leans forward and cups my face in his hand. His eyes are so blue, and a wave of arousal sweeps through me at his touch.

I want this man.

I want all of this man . . . every last drop.

“Hot towel?” Jessica the flight attendant asks.

We jump back from each other, embarrassed. What must they think of us? They’ve been watching us flirt shamelessly for the entire trip.

“Thank you,” I stammer as I take the towel from her.

“There’s a snowstorm in New York, and we’re going to circle for a while to see if we can land,” she says.

“What happens if we can’t?” Jim asks.

“We will fly on to Boston and have an emergency layover for the night. You will be accommodated in a hotel, of course. We’ll know in the next ten minutes. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you.”

She walks off to the other side of the plane and out of earshot, and Jim leans over and whispers, “I hope New York freezes the fuck over.”

Nerves dance in my stomach. “Why is that?”

“I have plans for us,” he whispers darkly.

I stare at him as my brain misfires. I’ve been prick teasing like a pro, but I’m really not that kind of girl. It’s easy to be brave and slutty when there’s no chance of anything happening. I begin to perspire. Why did I get so damn tipsy? Why did I tell him about my drought? That’s supposed to be kept private, fool.

“Another drink?” Jim whispers.

“I can’t—I have a job interview this afternoon.”

“That won’t be happening.”

“Don’t say that,” I stammer. “I want this job.”

“Good evening, passengers; this is the captain speaking.” A voice comes over the loudspeaker, and I close my eyes. Shit.

“Due to a snowstorm in New York, we will be flying on to Boston tonight and staying there. We will return to New York early in the morning. Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused, but safety is our priority.”

My eyes meet Jim’s, and he gives me a slow and sexy smile and raises his eyebrow.

Oh no.

“Don’t look so excited.” He smirks.

“Jim . . . ,” I stammer. Oh hell, how do I say this? “I’m not really the kind of girl who . . .” My voice trails off.

“Who fucks on first dates?” he says, finishing my sentence.

“Yes.” I wince at the crudeness of that statement. “I just don’t want you to think . . .”

“I know. I wouldn’t,” he replies curtly. “I don’t.”

“Good.” Relief fills me. “I was being flirty when I thought we were getting off and never seeing each other again.”

“Right.” He smirks in amusement.

“Not that I don’t think you’re great,” I add. “Because if I were that kind of girl, I would totally be into you. We would be fucking like . . .” I pause as I try to think of an analogy.

“Rabbits?” he offers.

“Yes.”

He holds both hands in the air. “I understand; platonic humans only.”

I smile broadly. “I’m so glad you understand.”

Seven hours later

He slams me up against the wall as he struggles to pull my skirt up over my hips, and his open mouth ravages my neck. “Door,” I pant. “Open the damn door.”

Oh God . . . I’ve never felt this chemistry with anyone before. We’ve laughed and danced and kissed our way around Boston, and somehow he makes me feel at ease. It’s as if I do this type of thing every day, and it’s completely natural. The weird thing is, it feels right. The spontaneity of the situation I find myself in has me feeling all brave. This man is witty and funny and dirty as all hell, and in my opinion—which, in truth, could be totally screwed over with alcohol consumption at the moment—he’s worth the risk . . . because I know I will never get the opportunity to be with a man like him again.

I’ve died and gone to layover bad-girl heaven.

Jim fumbles with the key, and we stumble into my room. Then he throws me onto the bed.

My chest rises and falls as we stare at each other, and the air between crackles with electricity.

“I’m not this kind of girl,” I remind him.

“I know,” he breathes. “I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”

“But there is a drought,” I whisper. “So . . . so dry.”

He raises his eyebrows as he pants along with me. “This is true.”

I stare at him for a moment as I try to clear my arousal fog. My sex is throbbing and pleading for his body. “It would be a shame to . . .” My voice trails off.

“I know.” He licks his lips in appreciation as his eyes roam over my body. “Such a fucking shame.”

He takes his shirt off over his shoulders, and my breath catches. He has a broad, muscular chest with olive skin and a scattering of hair that runs from his navel and disappears down into his pants. His hair is dark, and his eyes are a brilliant blue—but it’s the power behind them that has me aching for him to take me. There’s an edge to his touch that I’ve never felt before.

He’s all male and pure domination. There’s no mistaking who’s in charge here.

Something about this man has opened up another side of me that I didn’t know existed. I know he could have any woman in the world he wants.

And at this moment, he wants me.

There’s no denying the chemistry between us; it’s raw, honest, and all-consuming. He’s hardly touched me, and I already know that this night is special.

Maybe fate has dealt me an ace for a change.

With his eyes locked on mine and in slow motion, he unzips his pants and pulls his dick out. It’s big and hard, and my chest rises and falls as I watch him. My heart is in overdrive. Is this really happening?

Oh. My. God.

He begins to slowly stroke himself, and my mouth falls open as I stare, transfixed.

I’ve never had a man touch himself in front of me before.

Holy fucking shit. This is off the hook.

He lifts one of his feet to the bed and really begins to let himself have it. The muscles in his shoulders and arms flex as he jerks himself hard, and my insides ripple in pleasure as I imagine it’s me doing it for him.

This is like reality porn . . . only ten times better.

What the hell am I doing here? I’m a good girl, and good girls don’t do bad things with men like this.

We don’t know the same people, we don’t live in the same city, and I may never see him again, and there’s an unexpected freedom in that. I can be different.

Whoever he wants me to be.

His eyes are locked on mine, and his jaw clenches. “Get over here and suck my cock, Emily,” he murmurs darkly.

God, yes. I thought he’d never ask. I scurry to my knees, desperate to please him.

I don’t know anything about this guy, but I do know that at this moment, I want to be the best sex he’s ever had. I take him in my mouth as I pretend to be the deep-throat champion of the world. I fist him hard as my hand follows my lips.

It’s been so long, and I feel my sex clench, my orgasm close just from the taste of his preejaculate.

“Fuck . . . so good,” I murmur around him. “The taste of you is going to make me come.”

He tips his head back to the sky and closes his eyes. “Naked. I need you fucking naked,” he growls with urgency. He drags me off the bed and in one moment has my skirt and panties on the floor. He pulls my shirt off over my head and throws my bra to the side.

Then he stops still . . . and in slow motion, with his hands clenched by his sides, his eyes drop down my body. He drinks me in, and I feel the heat as his gaze skims my skin.

My world stops spinning, and I stand before him naked and vulnerable, waiting for his approval.

This is new for me. I’ve never been with a man who’s so dominant and commanding. His eyes, his voice, his every touch reminds me of who I am with and how much his pleasure means to me.

I feel like I want to rise to the challenge, and the primal urge to satisfy him is taking me over.

When his eyes meet mine again, they’re blazing with desire. An undercurrent of darkness and tenderness runs between us. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how a man looks at a woman when every ounce of his being wants her. Because I swear to God, I’ve never seen this look before in my life.

“On your back,” he murmurs.

My face falls in fear.

He takes me in his arms and kisses me deeply as he holds my face in his hands. “What is it?” he breathes.

“It’s . . . it’s been a long time,” I pant.

“I’ll take care of you, baby,” he whispers softly, which eases my fears. His mouth takes mine, his tongue slowly sliding through my open lips with just the right amount of suction.

My knees nearly buckle underneath me.

He lays me down and spreads my legs and smiles darkly as he kisses his way down my body.

I stare at the ceiling as I try to control my erratic breathing; no amount of alcohol could have prepared me for this. He lifts my legs and puts my feet onto his strong shoulders and then drops my knees wide.

I am completely open for him, and he takes me with no reservations and sucks hard.

I buck off the bed. “Ah!” I cry.

But he gives me no mercy as he drives three of his thick fingers into my sex and begins to pump me hard.

Shit . . . can’t we ease into it, at least?

His tongue is on my clitoris, and his fingers are on my G-spot. What the actual hell is going on here? My body begins to quiver like a puppet . . . his puppet.

The man’s a god.

My legs lift off his shoulders by themselves, and I convulse as a freight train of an orgasm rips through me.

That took approximately five seconds. Oh hell. How embarrassing. Way to act cool. He chuckles as if he’s proud, and I throw the back of my forearm over my eyes to hide my face in shame.

He pulls my arm away and takes my jaw in his hand and drags my face back to his. “Don’t hide from me, Emily. Not ever,” he commands.

My eyes search his. This is too full on . . . too much. This guy is too intense.

“Answer me.”

“What do you want me to say?” I whisper.

“Say yes so that I know you understand.”

The air crackles between us. “Yes,” I breathe. “I understand.”

“Good girl,” he whispers as he leans in and kisses me again. His tongue is soft stroking perfection, and my legs open by themselves once more. He gets up and takes four condoms from his wallet, opens one, and hands it to me. “Put it on me.”

I take it from him and bend to kiss him softly on his dick before I roll the condom on. “You’re very bossy.” I smirk.

He smiles broadly as he falls onto his back, pulls me over him, and drags my face to his. “You’ll fuck me first,” he murmurs against my lips, “and then I’ll fuck you when you’re warmed up.”

I smile against his mouth. “I only fuck once, big boy, and then I fall asleep.”

He gives me a slow, sexy smile.

I straddle his large body as our kisses become desperate. His thick cock is up against his stomach, and he holds it in the air and guides my hips down over him.

Oh, the burn—he’s big.

“Ow,” I whimper.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Wiggle from side to side.”

He cups my breasts in his hands as he stares up at me in what seems like awe.

I smile down at him. “What?”

“From the moment I saw you on the plane today, I wanted you riding my cock.”

I giggle down at him. “Do you always get what you want?”

“Always.” He grabs my hips and slams me down, and our mouths fall open in pleasure.

Oh . . . he’s . . .

“So fucking tight,” he grinds out.

With our eyes locked, he slowly moves me up and down, and I can feel every vein on his thick shaft.

His eyes are hooded as he looks up at me, and I lean forward and kiss him softly. “Do you know how perfect you feel inside me?” I whisper, and then I lick his open mouth.

His eyes roll back in his head. “You are one hot fuck.” He picks me up by the hip bones and slams me back down on his cock, and I laugh out loud at the overwhelming sensation of being filled to the hilt.

“God, fill me up,” I moan. “Give it to me,” I beg. I love how he’s losing control. It’s making me crazy. And then as if in some kind of alternate universe, my mouth latches on to his neck, and I suck hard as I ride him.

He hisses, and as if he’s completely losing control, he bucks me off and pulls out and throws me onto my back. He lifts my legs over his shoulders and slams in deep—so deep that the air is knocked from my lungs.

I smile. So he likes dirty talk, does he? Well, that just happens to be my specialty.

Game on.

I hold his face in my hands. “God, you’ve got a beautiful cock,” I whisper. “Is it weeping for me, baby?” I whisper as I clench around him. “I can feel your pulse in it.”

He gives me a slow, sexy smile as he pumps me. “I’m going to rip this condom off and blow in your dirty mouth in a minute.”

“Please.” I laugh as he pumps me hard, and in a moment of perfect clarity, he turns his head and tenderly kisses my inner ankle. We stare at each other as something intimate runs between us. A closeness that the reality of the situation shouldn’t allow. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper to break the seriousness of the moment, “or I’m going to give you another hickey.”

His eyes widen. “I better not have a fucking hickey, Emily.”

I laugh out loud as I look at the huge purple welt rising on his neck. God, what the hell? I’ve been reading way too many vampire romances. “Will you be in trouble with your mother?” I tease.

He laughs and slams into me and hits just the right spot, and I moan. Oh . . . this man knows his way around a woman’s body.

Every touch is perfectly placed and magnified. He knows exactly how to take me apart at the seams. He lifts my hip with his hand and circles deep, and my body takes on its own agenda because I need to come. Hard.

“Fuck me,” I beg. “Give me that beautiful cock of yours. Harder,” I moan. “Fuck, I need it harder.”

His eyes close in pleasure, and he pumps me at piston pace. I grab on to him as tightly as I can as I convulse. He holds himself deep and cries out into my neck, and I feel his cock jerk as it releases.

We pant as we cling to each other, wet with perspiration, our hearts racing wildly together, and he smiles up against my cheek as if remembering something.

“What?”

“Welcome to the Miles-High Club, Emily.”

I giggle as I kiss him. “First class is the only way to fly.”

Jim smiles sexily down at me as I lie naked in bed. He’s dressed, and his bag is packed and by the door. “I have to go.”

I screw up my face and hold out my arms. “No, don’t leave me,” I tease in a whiny voice.

He chuckles as he bends and takes me into his arms one last time. We’re not on the same plane back to New York this morning; his flight leaves early, and mine leaves late. He kisses me softly. “What a night,” he whispers.

I smile as his head drops to the crook of my neck, his teeth nipping down toward my collarbone. “I won’t be walking for a month—actually, a year,” I mutter dryly.

He bends and bites my nipple hard, and I jump. Then he comes back up, and his eyes meet mine.

I cup his handsome face. “I had an incredible night.”

He smiles softly. “Me too.”

I reach up and put my finger on the huge hickey on his neck, and his fingers go to it too. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I have no idea what came over me.” I giggle. “Your dick was too good, turned me into an animal.”

He bites me again. “How am I supposed to get on a plane with a huge-ass hickey on my neck?” he scolds. “If you knew how many important meetings I have this week, Emily . . .”

We both laugh, and then his face falls as he watches me. I’m not joking—I don’t want him to leave me. This man is everything I’m not looking for, but he’s somehow ticking every box.

What if I never see him again?

How am I supposed to move on from a night like this, erase it from my memory bank, and pretend it never happened? I close my eyes in disgust with myself. This is why I don’t do one-night stands. I’m not cut out for sex without strings—it’s not who I am. I will never be that person.

I hate that he is.

“Actually, I have a scarf in my bag. Do you want it?” I ask.

“Yes,” he snaps.

I climb out of bed and go to my suitcase and begin to rummage through it. He takes the opportunity and stands behind me and grabs my naked hip bones in his hands and pumps me with his hips. I stand and turn to face him. “I’m not even joking now—stay another night.”

He traces his finger down my face and cups my jaw in his hand as our eyes lock.

“I can’t,” he whispers, his eyes searching mine . . . with something unspoken.

Does he have someone at home? Is that why he hasn’t asked for my number? Uneasiness fills me. I’m not made for this one-night stand crap.

I turn my back on him and dig out the scarf and hand it over. It’s cream and cashmere, and it’s initialed.

E.F.

My mother’s tennis group gave it to me as a gift when I finished college. I did love it . . . but oh well.

He frowns as he looks down at the embroidered letters, and I take it from him and wrap it around his neck to cover the huge purple bruise. I smirk as I look at it. I didn’t even know how to give a hickey. I must have really been in the moment.

“What does the F stand for?” he asks.

“Fuck bunny.” I smile to cover my disappointment. I don’t want him to know that his last comment upset me.

He chuckles and grabs me roughly into his arms and walks me back toward the bed. “What an apt description that is.” He takes my leg and wraps it around his waist, and we share one last lingering kiss.

“Goodbye, my beautiful fuck bunny,” he whispers.

I run my fingers through his hair as I stare at his gorgeous face. “Goodbye, Blue Eyes.”

He picks the scarf up and inhales deeply. “This smells like you.”

“Put it on every time you jerk off.” I smile sweetly. “Imagine it’s me doing all the work.”

His eyes flicker with excitement. “You know, for someone who hasn’t had sex for eighteen months, you’re a fucking sex maniac.”

I giggle. “I’ll go back to my drought now. It’s safe there . . . and I can walk unassisted.”

His face falls, and I feel like he wants to say something but is stopping himself.

“You’re going to miss your plane.” I fake a smile.

We kiss once more, and I hold him tight, and God, he really is incredible.

He stands, and with one last lingering look at me lying naked in the bed, he turns and walks out.

I smile sadly at the door he just left through. “Yes, sure, you can have my number,” I whisper into the silence.

But he didn’t want it. He’s gone.

Twelve months later

I exhale and put my hand over my heart as I stand on the curbside and look up at the glass skyscraper in front of me. My phone rings, and the name Mom lights up the screen. “Hello, Mom.” I smile. I get a vision of my beautiful mother. She has a perfect blonde bob and flawless skin, and she’s always immaculately dressed. If I can look half as good as her at her age, I will be winning at life. I miss her already.

“Oh, darling, I just called to wish you good luck.”

“Thank you.” I tap my toe, unable to stand still. “I’m so nervous I was throwing up this morning.”

“They’re going to love you, dear.”

“Oh God.” I exhale heavily. “I hope so. It took me six damn interviews to get this job, and I had to move across the country for it.” I screw up my face in fear. “Have I done the right thing, Mom?”

“Yes, love, this job is your dream, and besides, you needed to get away from Robbie. The distance from him will do you good.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom, don’t bring Robbie into it.”

“Darling, you’re dating a man who is unemployed and lives in his parents’ garage. I don’t understand what you see in him.”

“He’s just between jobs at the moment.” I sigh.

“Then if he’s got nothing going on here, why wouldn’t he move to New York with you?”

“He doesn’t like New York. It’s too busy for him.”

“Oh, Emily, can you hear the excuses you make for this man? If he loved you, he would be there supporting your dream, since he doesn’t have any of his own.”

I exhale heavily. I’ve been thinking these things myself, but no way in hell would I admit it to anyone.

“Are you calling me to stress me out about Robbie, or are you calling me to wish me luck?” I snap.

“I’m calling you to wish you luck. Good luck, darling. Go and show them what you’re made of.”

I jiggle on the spot nervously as I look at the towering building above me. “Thanks.”

“I’ll call you tonight for a full debrief.”

“Okay.” I smile. “I’m going to go in.”

“Go get ’em, tiger.” She hangs up.

I stare up at the building and at the fancy gold letters over the large double front doors.

MILES MEDIA

I exhale and drop my shoulders. “Right. You can do this.”

This is the opportunity of all opportunities. Miles Media is the biggest conglomerate media empire in the United States and one of the largest in the world, with over two thousand staff based in New York alone. My fascination with journalism started in the eighth grade when I witnessed a car accident on my way home from school one day. Because I was the only witness, I had to give a statement to the police, and then when it turned out that the car was stolen, the local paper came and interviewed me. I felt like a rock star that day, and the shine never dulled. I’ve been to college to study journalism and done internships with the best companies in the United States. But it was Miles Media that I had my heart set on. Their stories are a cut above the rest; no other media company would do. I’ve applied for every position that has come up for three years and only recently got a callback. And even then, I went to six interviews before I was offered the job, and God, just don’t let me screw this up.

I take out my security card and put the lanyard around my neck, and I glance down at my phone.

No missed calls. Robbie didn’t even call me to wish me luck. Ugh, men.

I make my way to reception. The security guard at the front desk accepts my identification, and I am given a code to work the elevator. My heart is beating so fast as I get into the elevator with all the beautiful posh-looking people, and I push the button for the fortieth floor. I glance over at myself in the mirrored doors. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt that hangs to midcalf, sheer black stockings with patent leather high heels, and a cream long-sleeved silk blouse. I wanted to look professional and elegant. I’m not sure if I pulled it off, but here’s hoping. I pull my hand through my thick dark ponytail as the elevator flies higher and higher. I take a side glance at the others in the elevator. The men are all in expensive suits, and the women are ultraprofessional and wearing full faces of makeup.

Damn it, I should have worn bright lipstick. I’ll buy one on my lunch break. The doors open on the fortieth floor, and I stride out as if I don’t have a fear in the world.

Faking confidence is my superpower, and today I’m totally faking it till I make it.

Or at least die trying.

“Hello.” I smile at the kind-looking woman standing by reception. “I’m Emily Foster. I’m starting today.”

She smiles broadly. “Hello, Emily, my name is Frances, and I am one of the floor managers.” She steps over to me and shakes my hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

Well, she seems nice.

“Come through, and I’ll show you to your desk.” She walks off, and I peer into the huge office space. The tables are grouped into lots of four or six with partitions separating them from the others. “As you know, each floor of this building is a different arm of the company,” she says as she walks. “We have internationals and magazines from floor twenty down. Floors thirty to forty are news and current affairs, and above forty are television and cable.”

I nod nervously.

“The two top levels of the building are senior management only, and your security card won’t get you up there. It’s customary for new employees to be taken on a guided tour of the building, and Lindsey from human resources will come and get you at two o’clock this afternoon.”

“Okay, great.” I smile as I feel my confidence seep out into the carpet. God, this is all so professional.

“Most people start on level four and work their way up the building, so congratulations for starting on level forty. That in itself is amazing.” She smiles broadly.

“Thank you,” I reply nervously.

She leads me over to a group of four desks by the window and pulls out a chair. “This is your desk.”

“Oh.” I feel the blood drain from my face. I’ve totally bitten off more than I can chew here. I fall into my seat as panic begins to rise in my stomach.

“Hello,” a man says as he sits in the seat beside me. “I’m Aaron.” He reaches over and shakes my hand with a broad smile. “You must be Emily.”

“Hi, Aaron,” I whisper, feeling totally inadequate.

“I’ll leave you in Aaron’s safe hands.” Frances smiles.

“Thank you.”

“Have a great day.” She returns to reception.

And I stare at the computer on my desk as my heart begins to beat violently.

“Are you excited?” Aaron asks.

“Oh my God, I’m petrified,” I whisper as I turn to him. “I’ve never done this job before. I usually find the stories with my group.”

He smiles warmly. “Don’t worry; we all felt the same when we started, but they wouldn’t have given you the job if they didn’t think you could do it.”

I give him a lopsided smile. “I just don’t want to let anyone down.”

He reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine. “You won’t. This team is great, and we help each other.”

I glance down at his hand on mine.

“Oh.” He pulls it away as he notices my discomfort. “I’m totally gay and way too touchy, apparently. Tell me if I get in your space. I have no sphere of reference.”

I smile, grateful for his honesty. “Okay.” I look around the office as people file in. “How long have you worked here?”

“Four years. I love it.” He shivers his shoulders to accentuate his point. “Best job I’ve ever had. I moved from San Fran for it.”

“I moved from California.” I smile proudly.

“You here by yourself?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I got a little one-bedroom apartment. I arrived on Friday.”

“What did you do all weekend?” he asks.

“Freaked out about today.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry. We’ve all been there.”

I look around at the two other empty chairs. “Who else do we work with?”

“Molly.” He points to the chair behind me. “She doesn’t start until nine thirty. She’s a single mom and has to get her kids off to school first.”

I smile; I like that.

“And Ava—she’s just late because she probably went out last night partying.”

I smile.

He rolls his eyes. “She’s a deplorable party girl, and she’s never at her desk—always finds somewhere she has to be.”

“Hello,” a girl says as she runs up the aisle and sits down in her chair. She’s panting and holds out her hand. “I’m Ava.”

I shake her hand and smile. “I’m Emily.”

Ava is younger than me and very attractive, with a honey-colored bob and dramatic makeup. She’s trendy and very New York.

“Open up your computer, Emily, and I’ll show you through our programs,” Aaron says.

“Okay,” I reply as I concentrate on my task.

“Oh my God, Aaron,” Ava says. “I met the hottest fucking guy last night.”

“Here we go.” Aaron sighs. “You meet the hottest fucking guy every night.”

I find myself smiling as I listen to them.

“No, seriously, this time I mean it.”

I glance over at Aaron, and he smirks at me and rolls his eyes as if he’s heard it all before.

She gets to work, and Aaron goes through and explains the programs as I take notes. “At ten o’clock the stories will start coming in.”

I listen intently.

“We, as reporters, go through them and all say yay or nay as to whether it’s got legs and if we go and report on it.”

I frown. “But how will I know that?”

“We just vote yes for stuff that interests us, I suppose,” Ava says. “Obviously, news stories that are breaking are crucial, but it’s the other content that they pay us for.”

She reads an email. “For example, three coffee shops have closed down in one week within two blocks from each other.” She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, who gives a fuck? This isn’t news.”

I giggle.

“Here’s one.” Aaron reads out, “A driver has been clocked traveling at one hundred fifty-five miles per hour, and he ran a police stop sign. He was involved in a hot pursuit and ended up crashing into parked cars in Brooklyn.”

Ava nods. “Yeah, that’s good.”

“We’ll go with that.” He types something and puts the file into a saved folder.

“So how does this work?” I ask.

“We collect stories, and then we discuss collectively what each of us has done and put together a list of stories. You research your stories and have them in by four each day for the next day’s news. Then we send them on to Hayden, and he sends them to editing. Obviously, if a good story comes in, it will take priority over everything else, and it will go to live news immediately.”

I frown as I listen. “So we each get our own stories and leads sent to us?”

“Yes, by email. By others on this level.”

I glance around at all the workers surrounding us.

“We keep our finger on the pulse of what sells and what news really is,” Ava replies. “It’s the coolest job ever.”

I smile. Maybe I really can do this.

“Open your emails.” Aaron reaches over and opens something for me on my computer, and then I watch as it keeps pinging.

“Those are all possible stories?” I frown.

“Yes.” He throws me a playful wink. “Get reading, baby. They come in thick and fast.”

I smile as excitement runs through me.

“Just make sure you get story details right. Nothing pisses management off more than incorrect names. You will get into huge trouble.”

“Got it.”

I’ve just gotten back from lunch when my phone rings. “Hi, Emily, this is Lindsey from human resources. I’ll be up in about five minutes to get you,” the kind voice says on the phone.

I wince. Oh, that’s right—I have that damn building tour. “Okay, thank you.” I hang up. “Oh no, I have to go on the office tour,” I whisper to my colleagues.

“That’s okay,” Aaron replies as he continues reading his emails.

“I’ve got so many leads,” I stammer. “I can’t keep up.”

“Don’t worry. It’s fine,” he comforts me.

“What if I miss a really important story?”

“You won’t—it’s fine. I’ll go through yours while you’re gone.”

“Really?”

“Of course it is. You aren’t expected to know everything on day one.”

“Oh no, you have to go to the top.” Ava grimaces.

“What’s the top?” I ask.

“Upper-management offices.”

“They’re not nice?”

“No, they’re fucking horrible, and you have a good chance of being fired on the spot.”

“What?”

“Oh, bullshit.” Aaron rolls his eyes. “They just don’t . . .” He screws up his face as he chooses his words. “They don’t fluff. If something is going to be said, they just say it how it is. They don’t take any shit from anyone.”

“Who are they?” I whisper.

“Well, Mr. Miles won’t be there. He never is. I think he’s in London.”

“Mr. Miles?” I ask as I feel my nerves dance.

“The CEO.”

“Yes, I know who he is. I think everyone does. Although I’ve never seen a picture of him. It’s him and his brothers, right?”

“Yes, it’s the Miles family who owns everything. He and his three brothers.”

“And they’re all upstairs?” I whisper as I quickly take out the bright lipstick I bought at lunch and reapply. I need some courage here.

“Just don’t say anything stupid up in the management levels,” Ava says.

My eyes widen. “Like what? What do they consider stupid?” I’m really beginning to panic.

“Just keep your mouth shut, take the tour, and don’t tell HR anything.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re on speed dial to the management levels. This whole tour you’re taking now is just so they can do a personality assessment on you in the two hours it takes them to show you around.”

“Oh my God.” I sigh.

“Hi, Emily, is it? I’m Lindsey.”

I turn to see a beautiful blonde, and I stand immediately and put out my hand. “Hello.”

She smiles at my coworkers. “Let’s get started. We will go down to level one and work our way up.”

I give my new work friends a nervous wave and follow her out of the office and into the elevator.

Here we go.

An hour and a half later

“And this is the gymnasium, for our staff’s own personal use.”

I look around at the expansive and swanky-looking gym on level sixty. “Wow.”

“It’s open from six in the morning until six thirty at night. It’s busiest before work, obviously, but you can come here on your lunch break also. A lot of people take a late or early lunch so that it’s not as busy when they come.”

This place is ridiculous. A cafeteria on level two that is the entire floor, a movie theater, a gymnasium, a mailroom floor, a computer geek floor. Everything has been thought out with such care.

“Okay, let’s get going.” Lindsey smiles. “We will head up to the management floors now.”

My stomach dances with nerves as we head back into the elevator.

She gets in and looks at the buttons. “Oh look, you’re in luck.”

I frown in question.

“Mr. Miles is here.”

I fake a smile.

“I’ll take you to meet him first.”

Oh God.

Don’t speak. Don’t say anything stupid, I remind myself. I twist my fingers in front of me nervously as we ride to the top floor. The doors open, and I step out of the elevator and stop still.

What the hell?

White marble for as far as I can see, floor-to-ceiling glass, and luxurious white leather furnishings. “Hello, Sammia.” Lindsey smiles as I look around in awe. This place is insane.

A beautiful woman looks up from her computer at reception, and she smiles warmly. “Hello, Lindsey.”

“This is Emily. She’s new and started on level forty today.”

Sammia comes around and shakes my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Emily.”

“Is Mr. Miles taking visitors?” Lindsey asks.

“He is.” She smiles. “I’ll just announce you.”

Announce me . . . jeez.

Lindsey hunches her shoulders as if she’s nervous too.

Sammia picks up the phone. “Mr. Miles, we have a new staff member to meet you in reception.” She listens for a moment and smiles. “Yes, sir.” She puts the phone down. “Just go in.”

“This way, Emily.” Lindsey directs me across a huge boardroom, and my heels click on the marble. Why don’t Lindsey’s shoes click?

Okay, buy rubber-soled shoes tomorrow.

We get to the end of the huge room and down another corridor, and my heels are clicking like I don’t know what. They’re even annoying me. I sound like a horse. I feel like taking them off and throwing them in the trash. Just be quiet. I’m trying to appear professional here.

We get to a set of black double doors, and Lindsey knocks as my heart pounds in my chest.

Just . . . don’t say anything stupid.

“Come in,” a deep voice calls.

Lindsey opens the doors, and I step into the office.

Familiar blue eyes rise to meet mine from behind the large mahogany desk, and I stop dead still.

What?

“Emily Foster, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Miles,” Lindsey says.

I stare at him, unable to speak because there’s no air in my lungs.

His eyebrow rises, and he sits back in his chair as he smirks. “Hello, Emily.” His big eyes hold mine, the same beautiful deep-blue eyes that hypnotized me twelve months ago.

It’s him.