: Chapter 11

I turn the spoon upside down, put it into my mouth, and suck the Nutella from it as I stare at the television.

It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still in my pajamas, and I’ve had a shitty day. After I woke up in a dream lying next to the most gorgeous man on the planet, Jameson Miles the asshole CEO decided to make an appearance and ruined everything.

To be honest, I’m regretting not going to his place for breakfast, but then, on the other hand, I’m glad I didn’t because I wouldn’t have found out about Chloe, his masseuse.

They fuck.

I hate that it bothers me. I hate that I can feel myself getting attached to him when he clearly isn’t feeling the same.

I dig into my jar of Nutella again. The smooth chocolate melts on my tongue, offering a momentary distraction.

I stare at the television in a daze, a horror movie. My favorite rom-com category is scratched from the viewing repertoire. My mind goes back to the first time I met Jameson, when he told me that he didn’t believe rom-coms were true.

Maybe he was on to something? Maybe I’m just a romantic fool?

Does he have feelings for Chloe? Who cares? He’s an asshole.

I need to cut this out. Stop thinking about him. He’s a self-absorbed player who sleeps with whoever he wants, whenever he wants. I look around my shitty apartment, and sadness fills me. If he liked me, it wouldn’t matter where we were—he would want to spend time with me regardless. But he couldn’t get out of here quick enough.

My mind goes over our fight this morning.

“Nobody treats me as bad as you do, Emily.”

“Because you pay them. Good thing you’ve got lots of money, Jameson. You’re going to need it. Nobody would put up with your shit for free.”

“That’s a low blow.”

Did I go too far? Was it a low blow? Probably, but what does he expect? And I can’t believe that nobody treats him as badly as I do. If he treats other women the way he treats me, surely they wouldn’t put up with it? Nobody is that stupid . . . are they?

“I’m not looking for a relationship.”

I punch the pillow on my lap in disgust. Six words have never made me feel so cheap.

Monday morning, I ride in the elevator to the top floor. We scheduled this meeting last week so that I could meet the private investigator, but it’s the last thing I want to do now.

I want to forget Jameson Miles, forget I ever met beautiful Jim . . . or Jay, or whatever the heck I’m supposed to call him. I’ve come to the realization that they’re a package deal, and unfortunately, I can’t have Jim without Jameson, even though it’s only Jim I want. So I’m doing what’s best for me. I’m cutting ties; I’m not falling into the pattern of sleeping with Jameson without strings in the hope that I get a glimpse of Jim every now and then.

It would be easy . . . too easy.

But I already know my poor heart couldn’t take it. I’m not wired for casual sex.

It’s just not who I am.

I’m going to be professional and try to concentrate on my job. If I didn’t have to see him, it would be so much easier, but it is what it is. I need to learn to deal with it. He’s not going anywhere, and I really want this job.

Damn it, Emily, why do you always take the hard way? Why do you always fall for the wrong guy? The last man had no motivation, and this man has too much. Both men didn’t care enough to go the extra mile for me. Maybe my expectations are too high from my book boyfriends in my romance novels—maybe Jameson was right on that one. But damn it, I want the fucking fairy tale for once.

The elevator door opens, and I walk out and through reception. “Good morning, Emily,” Sammia says.

“Morning.” I smile.

“Just go through to his office.”

“Thanks.” I walk down the corridor and knock on his door.

“Come in,” his deep voice calls.

I close my eyes and brace myself. I drop my shoulders and open the door. I stop on the spot. Shit.

The room is full of men.

“Come in,” Jameson says, devoid of emotion. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks.” I drop nervously into the seat near the end of the large rectangular table.

Jameson sits at the head, and Tristan, Elliot, Christopher, and an older man are on Jameson’s left. Then there are another six men I have never seen before.

Jameson’s eyes hold mine. “This is Emily Foster,” he introduces me.

“Hello,” the men all say.

I smile awkwardly as I look around the table.

“Emily, this is my father, George.” He gestures to the older man.

“Hello,” I whisper nervously.

“Hello, dear.” He smiles warmly; he’s in his sixties and looks like an older version of Jameson and Elliot. Gorgeous and distinguished with those piercing blue eyes.

“This is Martin and Gerrard, Max and Barry,” Jameson says as he points around the table. “And on the end are Calvin and Jake.”

“Hello.” I force a smile. I’ll never remember all these names.

“This is the corporate investigation team,” Jameson continues. “Jake will be the eyes on the floor, and the other five men will be assessing the data that’s collected.”

I watch him as he talks, devoid of emotion, and my heart cracks a little. He’s completely unrattled by me . . . by us.

There is no us.

“Okay.” I smile as I look around at the team. “Nice to meet you all.”

“We are going to hit the ground running this morning,” he continues. “Emily, you are going to show Jake around, and then you will be reporting directly to Tristan in regards to the stories you are putting forward.”

My heart drops, and I nod. My eyes go to Tristan, and he smiles warmly.

He knows why I’ve been designated to him. I feel like throwing myself on the floor and having a crying tantrum. “Thank you. That’s great,” I lie.

For the next fifteen minutes, I sit in my chair and stare at the CEO as he runs through the day’s events with a controlled detachment. He’s assertive, hard, and fiercely intelligent, and the room hangs on to his every word.

And he fucks his masseuse on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I don’t know how I got myself into this messed-up situation, but it has to end.

Well . . . it’s already ended, so I don’t need to bother anyway.

“Thank you; that wraps it up. I would like a report on my desk at four thirty every afternoon,” he tells the men from the investigation company.

“Yes, sir,” they reply as everyone stands. I wait at the back, unsure whether to leave or not.

“Emily, just a minute, please,” Jameson asks.

My heart flips. “Yes.”

“Can you take Jake down to your floor under the guise that he’s new and that you two are going through a training program together?”

My eyes search his.

He stares at me blankly, cold as ice.

“Sure.” I turn to Jake and smile. “Are you ready now?”

“Show me the way,” Jake says playfully. “After you.”

I turn and walk out of the office with my heart dripping into my high-heeled pumps. Well, that’s the end of that.

He’s done. I wish I were. I’ll get there—I always do.

I sit in the café at the bench seat by the window and stare at the limo waiting outside Miles Media from across the street. It’s been a long week, and today was especially flat.

It’s Thursday, massage day.

I get a vision of Jameson oiled up on the table and another woman roaming her hands over his body; my stomach clenches as I picture it so clearly. My mind’s playing evil games with me and showing me the worst reality-porn scenario in history.

Jim . . . being touched by another woman.

Is she dressed while she massages him? Do they talk? Do they laugh like we do?

I need to stop this; it’s so destructive. I want a man who doesn’t even exist.

The driver opens the front door of the building, and I watch in slow motion as Jameson Miles walks out, navy suit, perfect posture, dark hair . . . emanating power.

Everyone stops what they are doing and watches him get into the back of the limo. His driver shuts the door, and it slowly pulls out and disappears down the street.

I stare back at my ham-and-cheese toasted sandwich in front of me, my dinner. Deflation fills me. I just lost my appetite.

It’s three o’clock on Friday, and I stare at the bogus story in front of me. Ha . . . what a joke. I moved all the way to New York to make up fake news for a twat and his twat media company . . . and his twat brothers.

I hit the keys on my computer with force. Twat, twat . . . fucking twat.

So much for my years of university study. My parents must be so proud. When they offered me the chance to do this, I thought it was going to be exciting and a chance to prove my worth. Maybe not?

“Down the end,” I hear someone say. I glance up to see a man with a big brown paper bag.

“Uber Eats for Emily Foster.”

“What?” I look around, embarrassed. “I didn’t order anything.”

He reads the docket. “It says here that . . .” He pauses as he reads and frowns as if confused. “It says here that this Uber Eats delivery is quality controlled and safe for human consumption.”

I stare at him and take the bag from his hands.

He squints as he continues to read the docket. “This doesn’t make sense . . .”

“What doesn’t?”

“Sugar to sweeten you up.”

I open the bag to find a huge passion fruit cheesecake in its entirety, and I look up at the camera and smirk. Is he kidding?

“Who sent this?” I ask.

“It says here, the sender is a Mr. Nice Guy.”

I stare at him deadpan. “Mr. Nice Guy?”

“Yeah, weird, huh?”

“Thank you.” I try my hardest not to smile. I know he’s watching.

Molly and Aaron peer into the bag. “Score,” Aaron screeches. “I’ll get the plates.” He takes off to our staff kitchen.

“Thank God for cheesecake,” Molly sings in excitement.

Okay . . . he’s made the first move. What do I do?

I take out my phone and text him.

Dear Mr. Nice Guy

Thank you.

Although, I should have you know

I’m already sweet enough.

I hit send and wait. A reply bounces back.

I have no doubt. Can I take you out to dinner tonight?

I sit back in my chair, surprised by his request. This is a no-win situation. He wants a fuck buddy to join his harem, and I want him all to myself. I write back.

I think we both said all we needed to on Sunday morning.

God . . . why can’t he just be normal? A reply bounces back.

I have a proposal for you.

I stare at the message but don’t reply. A proposal? What, does he want me to be his new masseuse?

I feel my anger bubble at the mere thought of her. Ten minutes later, another text comes in.

Hear me out, please.

Please. He said please. Ugh, okay. I reply.

Fine.

I wait.

I’ll pick you up at seven.

“Here you go,” Aaron says as he passes me a plate with the biggest slice of cheesecake I’ve ever seen. He passes Molly hers and then takes a seat with his.

“This is fucking delicious,” Molly mumbles with her mouth full.

Aaron moans in appreciation. “Oh my fuck, foodgasm.”

I take a bite as I concentrate hard on not smiling too hard—just in case he’s watching.

Well played, Mr. Miles . . . well played.

Sometimes you just know in your gut that you shouldn’t be doing something. The outcome is already written in the stars, and sometimes you should just be stronger and say no. But what if you can’t?

I can’t physically bring myself not to go tonight. The masochist in me wants to see him. The same masochist wants him to take me and throw me onto his fancy bed and fuck me till I forget my own name. It’s been a long and lonely week. But I have to stay strong tonight. If I cave in now, the last week has been for nothing.

And I still stand by what I said on Sunday. I am too good for him with the way he is at the moment, and I won’t share, and money means nothing to me at all.

He needs to step up or step away.

The security buzzer sounds, and my stomach dances in excitement. “Hello.”

“Uber Eats.” I hear his velvety voice.

I smile broadly. “What have you got for me?”

“Italian sausage.”

“Hmm,” I tease. “Are you going to drug my sausage and take advantage of my body after I fall unconscious?”

“Undoubtedly.”

I smile and push the button to let him up, and then I begin to pace as I wave my arms around in the air.

Play it cool . . . play it cool . . . play it cool.

Knock, knock. I open the door in a rush, and there he stands, gray shirt and black jeans . . . blazing blue eyes. A slow, sexy smile crosses his face. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I whisper as I stare at the beautiful specimen in front of me. I just want to throw myself at him, the pull to him unbearable.

He leans down and kisses my cheek as he walks past me into my apartment.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.” I grab my purse and wrap.

His eyes drop down my body in my black dress. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks,” I breathe.

“Let’s go.” He holds his arm out, and I link mine with his.

We take the elevator in awkward silence. He is pensive, and I’m just nervous as all hell.

Playing cool, calm, and collected is terrifying, and I remind myself not to drink too much tonight. We walk out the front of the building, and the limo is parked at the curb.

He opens the door, and I climb in. Memories of the first time I was in this back seat accost me, and the phrase dirty ho rolls around in my head.

I slide in, and he gets in beside me, and then he picks up my hand and takes it in his and rests them on his lap. Okay . . . he’s touchy. What does that mean?

I don’t know what to say or where this sits in my playing-hard-to-get act, but the warmth of his touch is so comforting that I let him. The limo drives through the city, and I stare out the window as a million thoughts run through my head.

Tonight is important; we either have to come to some sort of understanding or cut our losses. We can’t keep fighting over nothing like we do.

The car comes to a stop, and the driver opens the door. I climb out, and Jameson takes my hand and leads me into a fancy restaurant, Lucino’s.

“Booking for Miles,” he says as he holds my hand tightly in his.

“This way, sir.” The waiter smiles as he leads us through the restaurant to a cozy little table in the corner. He pulls out my chair, and I take a seat.

Jameson sits opposite me; the restaurant is dark, with candles flickering on the tables and fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. It’s very romantic.

Don’t get excited. It’s probably just a coincidence.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the waiter asks.

“Yes, we’ll have a bottle of S Salon please.” He closes the menu and hands it over.

I stare at him. Here we go again.

The waiter disappears, and Jameson’s big blue eyes come to mine. He takes my hand over the table again. “Hello.” He smiles softly, as if finally relaxing.

Drop arguing about the drinks. It doesn’t fucking matter who orders the drinks. “Hi.” I smile.

He dusts his thumb over the back of my knuckles as his eyes search mine. “How are you?”

“Good.”

Oh, his touch makes me weak. I just want to blurt out that I’m lying and that I’ve had a shit week and he’s the king of Twatsville.

We stare at each other across the table. It’s as if both of us don’t want to speak in case we break out into all-out war. “What’s this proposal, Jameson?”

He sits back, seemingly annoyed at my tone.

I grip his hand. “And I’m not giving you attitude. I just want to know what you’re thinking,” I say softly. “Stop being on the defensive with me.”

He relaxes a little, and the waiter returns with the bottle of champagne and opens it. He pours a little into the champagne flute, and Jameson tastes it. “That’s fine.” The waiter then fills our glasses and leaves us alone.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last weekend.”

“And?”

He sips his drink. “I canceled my massages this week.”

I smirk as my eyes hold his; I stay silent.

“The thing is with me . . .” His voice trails off.

I wait for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, I squeeze his hand in mine for reassurance.

“I’m married to my job, Em.”

I frown.

“When I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship, I didn’t mean . . .” He shrugs as if lost for words.

“You didn’t mean what?”

“I didn’t mean that I don’t want to see you. I meant that I am a workaholic, and I know that very few women can deal with how much I work.”

“Jameson, I don’t care about how hard you work. I just don’t want to be one of many.”

He frowns. “Meaning what?”

“I’m not wired for one-night stands, Jameson. It’s not who I am. But I’m not looking for a deep and meaningful relationship either. You’ve misunderstood me.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to have a friendship with a man and know I’m the only person he’s sleeping with.”

He listens.

“And I most definitely don’t want to share you with a fucking masseuse.”

He rolls his eyes.

“And I don’t want you to roll your fucking eyes at me.”

He clenches his jaw, unimpressed. “Watch your tone,” he warns.

“See that?” I say.

“What?”

“This defensive shit. It has to stop between us. We can’t keep fighting over every little thing like we do.”

“You’re just as bad,” he fires back.

“I know, and I’m trying to stop it. Just now I held my tongue because you ordered my drink without asking what I wanted.”

“I’m used to being in control, Emily,” he snaps.

“So am I. That won’t change.”

His eyes search mine, and he rearranges the napkin on his lap as if he’s thinking.

“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend, Jameson,” I whisper. “That’s not what this is about. We have a great sexual connection, and I want it. I feel like I have to have it . . . but I can’t, not if I know you have it with other women. I need to be the only one.”

“Fine, I won’t sleep with anyone else,” he snaps in exasperation.

“And?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “And you can order the fucking drinks.”