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.”