: 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?

Damn it, the hottest sex of my life was just an initiation into some sleazy bedpost club.

For the past twelve months, the night that we spent together was something special that I held dear. He awakened something inside me that I didn’t even know existed, and now I find out that I’m one of many. My heart drops in disappointment, and I clench my jaw to stop myself from lashing out to try to hurt him back.

Bastard.

I’ve got to get out of here before I get myself fired on my first day.

“Nice to see you again.” I fake a smile, and with my heart beating hard in my chest, I turn and walk out of his office and close the door behind me.

“All done?” Lindsey smiles.

“Yes.” I nod.

We walk out through reception and into the elevator and begin to go back down to my level. “Don’t feel rattled,” Lindsey says softly.

I frown over at her in question.

“He’s very abrasive and not good with people, but his mind is beyond incredible.”

Like his dick.

“Oh, okay,” I reply as I stare at the ground. “Good to know.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No,” I lie. “Just polite chitchat.”

She smiles. “You should feel very privileged. Jameson Miles doesn’t make polite chitchat with anyone.”

“Oh.” I frown. The door opens, and I scurry out to evade this conversation. “Thank you so much for showing me around.”

“You’re welcome, and if you have any human resource issues, please call me immediately.”

“I will.” I shake her hand. Does being initiated into the Miles dick-riding club classify as a human resource issue? “Thank you so much.” I take off in the direction of my desk, and I discreetly grab my phone from my drawer. “Back in a moment.” I head to the bathroom and bang the stall door open and lock it. Then in the privacy of the bathroom, I type into Google: Jameson Miles.

I close my eyes as I wait for the information to load. My heart is hammering in my chest. Please don’t be married . . . please don’t be married.

I’ve beat myself up over this for the last year, and it’s played on my mind as to why he didn’t even pretend to want my number. I felt like we had a connection, but there was something he didn’t tell me. And for some reason, afterward, I got the feeling he was married . . . or in a relationship.

And that makes me a dirty ho. I’ve never been with a person who is in a committed relationship to someone else, and women who knowingly do that make me sick.

If I had known how much it was going to play on my mind, I wouldn’t have gone near him that night.

Jameson Grant Miles is an American businessman and investor. Aged 37, Miles is the eldest son of media mogul George Miles Jr. and the grandson of George Miles Sr. In 2012, he inherited control of the family empire, Miles Media Holdings Ltd., as well as investments in television, film, and multiple other companies. He is the former executive chairman of Publishing and Consolidated Media Holdings, which predominantly owns media interests across a range of platforms, and also a former executive chairman of Netflix.

In May 2018, Miles’s net worth was assessed as $5.50 billion, ranking him among the top 100 richest Americans, alongside his three brothers.

Oh hell. I read on.

Personal life.

Fiercely private, he is known for a penchant for beautiful women. He dated Claudia Mason from 2011 to 2015 and has had no known personal relationships since.

I put my hand on my chest and breathe out in relief. Thank God. I click on the link for Claudia Mason. Who is she? A barrage of images comes up, and I feel my confidence run down the drain.

Claudia Mason is an English businesswoman and fashion icon. Aged 34.

Mason is a British journalist. She is the editor-in-chief of the British edition of Vogue and also the youngest editor in the history of British Vogue. She took the helm of Vogue in 2014. Mason is one of the country’s most oft-quoted voices on fashion trends. In addition to her work with Vogue, Mason has written columns for Miles Media and has ten published books.

Personal life.

Mason is the eldest of five children and is the daughter of French politician Marcel Angelo.

She dated and was engaged to media heir Jameson Miles from 2011 to 2015, but the relationship broke down and ended, which she cited was due to their individual workloads and commitments on different sides of the world. She is currently dating Edward Schneider, a solicitor who resides in London.

Engaged . . . they were engaged?

I exhale heavily and click out of my search in disgust. Of course he dated her.

Well, that’s depressing. She’s the damn editor of British Vogue. I can’t compete with that shit. It took me three whole years to get a crappy job at Miles Media. I wash my hands and fix my hair in the mirror. Not that it matters anyway, I guess.

I have a boyfriend, and Jameson Miles is nothing to me. I storm back to my desk with a fire in my belly. I won’t even see him. I fall into my seat.

“How was the tour?” Aaron asks.

“Yeah, good.” I smile as I open my email.

“Did you go up to the top levels?”

“Uh-huh.” I begin to glance through my five thousand emails that arrived in the two hours since I left. Jeez, there’s a lot of news around here.

“What about the offices?” Aaron replies. “They’re something else, right? All that white marble.”

I roll my lips as I try to act casual. “Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t get to see the management offices when I started,” Molly says. “He wasn’t taking visitors that day.”

I glance over at her.

“I went into his office, but he wasn’t there,” Aaron chimes in.

“Who? Jameson, you mean?” I pretend to be uninterested in this conversation.

“Yeah, did you see him at all?”

“Yep.” I open an email. “I met him.” I fucked his brains out too.

“Was he a rude pig?” Molly frowns. “Everyone is so scared of him.”

“No, he seemed fine. I was in his office, and he seemed okay.”

“You were in his office while he was there?” Aaron frowns.

“Uh-huh.” I keep typing. Please stop talking about him.

“What are you guys doing tonight?” Molly asks. “The kids are with their dad, and I could do with pizza and beer. Screw the diet and the gym.”

“Yeah, I’m in,” Aaron replies.

“Really?” I smile. I can’t believe they are asking me out on my first day.

“Yeah, why not? Do you have anything else going on?” Molly asks.

“Well, seeing as you two are the only people I know in New York, what else could I possibly have going on?” I shrug happily.

“Pizza and beer it is,” Molly replies as she continues typing.

I begin to scroll back through my email list, and the name Jameson Miles pops up as a sender.

What?

I glance around guiltily and click to open it. It’s probably a welcome email sent to everyone.

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 came 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.