“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.
Chapter 3
Oh my God.
He stands and walks around to my side of the desk and holds his hand out to shake mine. “Jameson Miles.”
It’s him, the layover guy who never asked for my number. I stare at him as my brain completely misfires.
I can’t believe this. He’s the fucking CEO?
“Emily, tell Mr. Miles all about yourself,” Lindsey says, as if to prompt me to speak.
“Oh.” I catch myself and shake his hand. “I’m Emily Foster.”
His hand is strong and warm, and I’m instantly reminded how it felt on my skin. I pull my hand out of his grip as if he’s given me an electric shock.
His mischievous eyes hold mine, and he keeps his face straight. “Welcome to Miles Media,” he says calmly.
“Thanks,” I croak. I look over at Lindsey. Oh God, does she know I’m a dirty-talking whore bag who fucked our boss’s boss’s boss?
“I’ll take it from here, Lindsey. Emily will be out in a moment,” Mr. Miles states.
Lindsey frowns and looks over at me. “I’ll just—”
“Wait outside,” he says as he dismisses her.
Shit.
“Yes, sir,” she says as she scurries for the door. It closes behind her, and I drag my eyes back to him.
He’s tall, with dark hair, and he’s wearing the most perfectly fitted navy suit in the history of all suits. His blue eyes hold mine. “Hello, Emily.”
I twist my fingers in front of myself nervously. “Hi.”
He never asked for your number.
Screw him.
I tilt my chin to the ceiling as I act brave. I didn’t want him to call me anyway.
His eyes blaze, and he rests his behind on his desk and crosses his feet in front of him. I glance down at his shoes. I remember those pretentious expensive shoes.
“Given any poor unsuspecting travel companions hickeys lately?” he asks.
Oh hell on a broomstick—he remembers. I feel my face flush with embarrassment. I can’t believe I did that. Shit, shit, shit. “Yes, just last night, actually.” I pause for effect. “On my flight here.”
His jaw clenches, and he raises his eyebrow, unimpressed.
“So you’re not Jim?” I ask.
“To some people I’m Jim.”
“Women you pick up for one-night stands, you mean.”
He crosses his arms in front of him as if annoyed. “What’s with the attitude?”
“I don’t have an attitude,” I fire back.
He raises his eyebrow again, and I feel like slapping it down to his chin. I look around his over-the-top luxurious office. It’s ridiculous, with a 360-degree view out over New York. It has a large lounge area with a fully stocked bar and leather stools lined up in front of it and a conference table area. I can see a hallway with a private bathroom, and then another few rooms are off that.
He runs his fingertips over his bottom lip as he assesses me, and I feel it all the way to my toes. God, he’s so gorgeous. I’ve thought of him often over the last year.
“What are you doing in New York?” he asks.
“Working for Miles Media.” A thought crosses my mind, and I frown as I remember something he said to me back then.
Welcome to the Miles-High Club . . .
Dear God, I thought he meant sex-in-a-plane club . . . he meant women who had slept with him.
Miles . . . he’s the Miles . . . and there’s a club?