Emily,
You are required in my office at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow for a private meeting.
Go through security and tell them you are coming to see me. They will buzz you up to my floor.
Jameson Miles
CEO Miles Media
New York
"What the hell?" I whisper.
"What?" Molly asks.
"Nothing," I stammer as I minimize my screen. Shit. What does he want? Just play dumb.
I write back.
Dear Mr. Miles,
Would you like me to bring my team?
Emily
I tap my pen on the desk and look around nervously as I wait for his reply.
Emily,
No.
I do not want to see your team, nor do I want you to tell anybody about our scheduled meeting.
This particular meeting is of a private nature.
Jameson Miles
Miles Media
New York
My eyes widen. Oh my God . . . private nature? What the hell does that mean?
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I need pizza and beer too. Hurry up, five o'clock.
The bar is noisy and a hive of activity, and I can hardly wipe the goofy grin from my face as I look around at all the people who have just come from work. I'm sitting at a bench table with Molly and Aaron in a sports bar, and I'm feeling oh so New York.
It's a Monday night, and I'm out and about with what feels like a million cool people.
"All I'm saying," Molly says as she chews her pizza, "is that if you didn't see him all weekend, and he has no problem with that, there's an issue."
"Maybe he was just busy," Aaron scoffs.
"Maybe he's just lame," Molly huffs.
We're discussing Aaron's new boyfriend, and for some reason, I feel comfortable enough to make Aaron feel better about his situation because mine is worse. "Well, get this." I finish my mouthful. "You want to hear lame? I'm dating a guy I've crushed on since I was thirteen years old. A football star who was only interested in me after he injured himself. We had a few great months together, but then he dove into some kind of life crisis." I sip my beer. "He doesn't know what he wants to do outside of football. He's unemployed with no prospects. He lives in his parents' garage and just recently wrote his car off." I shake my head in disgust and pull my phone out of my bag. "He wouldn't move here with me because he doesn't like busy cities. He didn't call me this morning to wish me luck, and it's now"—I glance at my watch—"nine forty p.m., and he hasn't even bothered to call to see how my first day went."
They both groan in disgust. "What the fuck are you doing with him?" Aaron winces.
I sip my beer with an eye roll and shrug. "Who knows?"
They both chuckle.
"Well, all I want is some good sex." Molly sighs. "Every time I see someone I'm attracted to, I'm with the kids. So then I can't act on it."
I frown. "You wouldn't introduce anyone to your kids?"
"No. My God, they make their father's life hell with his new girlfriend."
Aaron laughs as if remembering something.
"What?" I ask.
Molly smirks. "My children are so fucking naughty you wouldn't even believe."
I giggle. "How old are they?"
"Mischa is thirteen, and Brad is fifteen," she replies. "They've decided between the two of them that they are going to make life a living hell for their father and me unless we get back together."
"How so?" I laugh.
"Brad has been suspended from school twice this year, and now Mischa is going off the rails too. A few weekends ago they each had a friend stay over at their father's while he and his girlfriend went out to dinner."
I frown as I listen.
"They got drunk from his bar and cut the crotches out of all of his girlfriend's underwear."
Aaron laughs, and my eyes widen in horror.
"And"—she sips her drink—"when their father asked them about it, they said that the underpants had rotted because her vagina was contaminated."
I burst out laughing. "No."
She shakes her head in disgust. "I wish I was joking."
Aaron throws his head back and laughs. "I fucking love your kids, man. That's a classic."
"No, it's a nightmare," she replies flatly.
"Why did you divorce him?" I ask.
"You know, I don't actually know." She thinks for a moment. "We just kind of lost our way. We were both working so hard, so we were always too tired for sex. We had two kids and a mortgage." She shrugs. "We never went on date nights or made an effort for each other. I don't have a precise moment that we knew it was over. We just kind of fell apart."
"That's sad." I sigh.
"He met someone else at work, and he talked to me about it. Nothing had happened at that stage, and he said he told me because he wanted to fight for us to get back what we once had."
"You didn't fight?" I ask.
"No," she says sadly. "And neither did he. We just kind of walked away from each other. It was all too hard at the time." She thinks for a moment. "I regret it now. He's a great man. And in hindsight, I think a lot of the problems we had just come from getting older. Sex drive is something you both need to work at, but we didn't realize that until it was too late." She smiles softly. "We're great friends now."
Hmm. We all fall silent.
"Lucky you've got those kids to cut up your competition's underwear." Aaron smiles.
We all laugh out loud. "Contaminated vagina. Where do they come up with this shit?"
I hold the black dress up against my body and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Hmm. I throw it and the coat hanger it's on onto the bed. I grab the gray skirt and jacket and hold it up to myself.
Maybe black?
Shit. What the hell do you wear when you want to be sexy without trying to look sexy? It's just now eleven o'clock, and I'm deciding what to wear to my meeting with Mr. Miles in the morning. What does he want to see me about anyway?
I think I'll go with the black dress. I lay it out on the chair. I pick up my patent leather pumps and put them on the floor under the dress. What earrings? Hmm. I twist my lips as I think. Pearls. Yes, pearls don't scream fuck me like the gold ones do. Pearls are 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.
"You. You are my problem."
"Me?" I ask, affronted. "What did I do?"
"Do you have something work related to talk to me about or not, Jim?"
I glare at her. "You're very rude."
"You're very rich."
"And?"
She shrugs.
"What does that mean?" I snap.
"Nothing." She straightens her back. "If you don't have anything work related to talk to me about, I'll get going."
I clench my jaw as I stare at her; the air crackles between us. "Can I see you tonight?"
Her eyes hold mine. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm a professional, and I have no intention of mixing business and pleasure."
I clench my jaw to stop myself from smirking. My interest in her is growing by the second. "What makes you so sure it would be a pleasure?"
"History has a way of repeating itself," she whispers as her dark eyes drop to my lips.
I get a vision of her naked and on top of me in my chair, and I inhale sharply as my cock begins to thump. "History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it," I say.
"Quoting Winston Churchill now, Mr. Miles?" she breathes.
I smirk, amused by her intelligence. "You must look at the facts because they look at you."
"I never worry about action, but only inaction," she fires back without hesitation.
"Exactly, so as a fellow Churchill tragic, I demand you have dinner with me tonight."
She smiles and stands. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I'm washing my hair."
"Why would you want to wash it when you could be getting it dirty?"
She shrugs casually. "I'm just not interested in you. You're not my type."
I stare at her as her words roll around in my head. Ouch.
I purse my lips as my eyes hold hers. That's the first time I've ever been flat-out rejected. "Very well; your loss."
"Maybe." She turns to leave. "Nice to see you again, though. You must be very proud of your achievements."
I rise and open the door in a rush. She looks up at me, and I clench my hand at my side to stop myself from touching her. "Goodbye, Emily."
"Goodbye," she breathes as the air swirls between us. "Thanks for giving me a job." She smiles.
I nod once. It's not the only job I have for you.
She turns and walks out and into the elevator, and I slam the door and storm back into my office.
I'm not her type . . . since when?
I hold the remote up to the security television screen and turn it back on. "Get me the fortieth floor," I ask the voice control.
It flickers, and then a picture comes up with the fortieth floor. I watch as she steps out of the elevator. "Follow her."
The camera follows her as she walks up the aisle and then to her seat at her desk.
"Camera above that area," I command.
The screen flickers, and she comes into view. The office is empty, and she takes out her phone and begins to scroll. She crosses her legs, and I sit forward as her thigh becomes visible through the split. I watch her as arousal swirls between my legs.
So . . . fucking hot.
She's looking something up. "Zoom in," I command.
The camera zooms in, and I squint as I try to read what she's googling.
Jameson Miles.
I sit back and smile. Bingo.