“Uh-huh.”
Aaron blows out a deflated breath. “Can you find us some cake too? Surely it’s somebody’s birthday around here.”
Molly looks around. “Yep, where’s that Uber guy when we need him?” Her eyes come to me. “Oh my God, was that cheesecake last week sent from Jameson?”
I smile broadly.
Aaron puts his head down and pretends to hit it on the desk. “He even sends cheesecakes. The man is a for real fucking god.”
Buzz goes my door buzzer. “Hello.” I smile.
“Hello, Ms. Foster. This is Alan, Mr. Miles’s driver.”
My face falls. “Oh. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mr. Miles asked me to collect you and take you to his apartment. He’s been delayed on a conference call and will be joining you shortly.”
“Oh, okay. I’m on my way.” I grab my overnight bag that I packed, and with one last look around my apartment, I head downstairs.
I walk out onto the curb to see the driver in his customary black suit standing next to the limo. “Hello,” I say nervously as I approach him.
“Hello.”
“I’m Emily.” I hold out my hand, embarrassed that I haven’t introduced myself before now.
“I’m Alan.” He smiles warmly as we shake hands. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” He opens the door, and I climb into the back of the car. He closes the door, and we drive through the New York night. This doesn’t seem real—me sitting in the back of a limo being driven to Jameson’s apartment by his driver.
We get to his building, and he stops in the pull-up area and opens the door. “I’ll take you up.” He goes to take my bag from me.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it. Thank you anyway.”
He frowns. I see his disappointment.
“Unless you want to carry it,” I splutter.
“Thank you.” He smiles as he takes it from me. “I would prefer to.”
Jeez. He got offended that I wanted to carry my own bag. What is this alternate universe?
We get into the swanky elevator, and the attendant already knows what floor to take me to. He must know Alan.
I hold my breath, nervous as we ride in silence. We get to the floor, and I tentatively follow Alan as he opens the door. “Mr. Miles shouldn’t be long. He’s still at the office. His call is going longer than he expected.”
“Thank you.” I smile.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No, all good.”
With a courteous nod, he closes the door and leaves me alone. I turn to see the lamps strategically on, creating a breathtaking canvas to the view. The twinkling lights over New York are nothing short of spectacular. I take my phone out and snap some pictures. I couldn’t be such a fangirl when he is here.
I walk into the bedroom and put my bag into the empty walk-in closet, and then I walk into his. Suits and business shirts are strategically lined up, and there are rows and rows of expensive polished shoes.
I run my hand over the sleeves of the suits as I look around. I open the top drawer of the dresser, and I smile at his over-the-top organization. His ties are all rolled and displayed as if this is a luxury men’s boutique. Watches . . . I count them. Ten expensive watches are lined up. And then I see something rolled up next to his watches. My heart stops when I see the initials.
E.F.
My scarf.
He kept it.
Not only did he keep it, but it’s also with his special things. I pick it up and hold it in my hands as I stare at it. My eyes close, and I inhale deeply; the faint smell of my perfume still lingers.
I didn’t imagine it back then. He was right there with me. I smile broadly and put the scarf back where it was and carefully close the drawer.
I don’t know what to do with this information, but I’m pretty damn pleased with my find. My heart is racing.
He kept it.
I walk through the apartment as I look around. I run my hand over the heavy marble countertops in the kitchen and smile at the sheer luxury of the place.
I wonder if he has eaten.
I open the fridge, but it’s surprisingly sparse. There is chicken and a few ingredients. I open the pantry and find some other things. I glance at the wine fridge and frown—it’s full.
Of course it is.
How often does Mr. Miles have a liquid dinner?
Hmm, I need to get a grip on this stress of his.
I pour myself a glass of wine, take out the ingredients, and look through the cupboards to find the pots and pans and chopping boards and knives. I search Spotify on my phone and put on some chill music.
I begin to chop the chicken with a huge goofy smile on my face.
He kept my scarf.
Forty-five minutes later, I hear the front door open. “Em?” he calls.
“In the kitchen.”
“Hmm . . . something smells good.” He kisses me and wraps his arms around me from behind. “What are you cooking?”
“Fuck bunny stew.”
He laughs loudly, and it’s a beautiful sound. It does things to my insides. “Does your mother know you’re a cannibal?” He kisses my cheek from behind.
I giggle as I stir the pot. “No, and don’t tell her.”
“You didn’t need to cook. I would have taken you out.” He pours himself a glass of wine.
“It’s Monday.” I frown.
“And?” He sips his wine.
“You don’t go out to dinner on a school night.”
“I go out every night.”
“What?” I frown. “You eat out every night?”
“Yeah, of course. Why?”
My mouth falls open, and I put my hand on my hip. “Jameson Miles, you have more money than sense. How do you relax if you go out to dinner every night?”
“I sit in a restaurant and eat.” He shrugs. “It’s really quite easy.”
I roll my eyes in disgust as I keep stirring. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” He takes me in his arms and stares down at me. “Did you really miss me over the weekend?”
I go up onto my toes and kiss his big beautiful lips. “I did, actually.”
He holds me tight.
“This is where you tell me that you missed me too,” I mutter dryly into his shoulder.
“I don’t miss people.”
“Ugh,” I huff as I pull out of his arms and go back to stirring the dinner. “Can you go out of the room so I can drug your food now?” I ask. “I plan on robbing your place.”
He chuckles. “Only if you promise to take advantage of my body while I’m sleeping.”
I giggle. “Deal.”
I dish up our dinner, and we take seats at the kitchen counter. I hold my breath as he takes his first bite. “Hmm, delicious,” he hums.
I smile proudly.
“A fuck bunny who cooks.” He smirks around a forkful of food.
“I love to cook. It’s my hobby.”
He frowns and watches me for a moment. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Emily.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. You’re very . . .” He pauses as he thinks of the right word. “Unaffected.”
“Unaffected by what?” I smirk as I eat.