The Stopover

by Swan, T L

  “Will you marry me?” He opens a black box and holds out a solitaire diamond ring.

  I stare at him for a moment as my brain misfires.

  Is this real?

  I look over to Tristan. I’m in complete and utter shock.

  “I’m the DJ.” Tristan grins as he taps the tape recorder as if very proud of himself.

  “You are crazy,” I whisper.

  “This proves it,” Jameson mutters dryly as he looks up at me from his knee.

  My eyes are wide. I’m shocked to my very core.

  “Answer the question,” he says.

  I nod through giggles as “The Pina Colada Song” echoes through the office. “Yes.”

  He slides the ring on my finger. It’s an oval diamond on a thin gold band, and I stare at it, still completely in shock.

  I bend to him, and we kiss as the office breaks into laughter and cheers. They clap as we laugh into our kiss.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  He stands and takes me into his arms. “Cheesy enough for you?” He smiles down at me.

  I giggle as I hold him tight. “Next level cheese—and perfect. I love you, Mr. Miles.”

  The song finishes, and Tristan presses play, and the song begins to repeat. The workers all cheer.

  Jameson laughs in embarrassment and leans in to kiss me. “The things I would do for you, Emily Foster, the things I would do.”

  Epilogue

  One month later

  I read the story in the paper.

  Hayden Morris and Lara Aspin were officially charged today with the embezzlement of seven million dollars from Miles Media.

  In what has been described as a modern Bonnie and Clyde story, the two, who have been dating for five years, carried out the fraud over a period of three years. The crime may have gone unnoticed, and they were only caught when Morris was fired by Miles Media.

  Fueled by a need for revenge, they stupidly decided to frame Jameson Miles for the crime. In the backfire of all backfires, this decision sealed their fate. The pair will be serving prison time of ten years in different state prisons.

  Jameson Miles has been cleared of any wrongdoing. Miles Media reached a new height today on the stock market since April 2018.

  I smile broadly. It seems so long ago now that this all happened—a lifetime, if I’m honest.

  Thank heavens it’s all over.

  We have a wedding to plan. He’s given me three months. We have so much to do, so many decisions. Where will we get married? I have no idea. Jameson has said that I have to pick the destination because as long as I’m there, he doesn’t care where it is.

  I wait on the curb in the underground parking lot. It’s Friday afternoon. “What did he say he was doing?” I frown at Alan.

  “I think you will be pleasantly surprised.” He smirks.

  I frown as I consider the possibilities. Jameson has been acting weird all week. Taking secret phone calls and being all pleased with himself. Maybe he’s secretly booked the wedding venue?

  I hope so—helps me out.

  I hear a crunch of gears, and I look up and frown. Bessie is bunny hopping toward us with Jameson behind the wheel, and Alan bursts out laughing.

  My mouth falls open in shock. “What in the world?” I whisper.

  He pulls up beside me, and I open the door.

  “Going my way?” He smiles with a sexy wink.

  I laugh out loud. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you away for a few days.”

  “You are?”

  “Your things are already in the trunk.”

  “In Bessie?” I stammer.

  “Yes, in Bitchy. I borrowed her from Viagra Mike. Although I must tell you, I’ve ordered you a new Range Rover. Bessie is unbearable.”

  “You snob.” I giggle, then turn and hug Alan in excitement.

  He laughs. “Have a great weekend, Ms. Foster,” he says as he helps me into the car. I lean over and grab Jameson and kiss his face. I love that he borrowed Bessie for me.

  He honks the horn. “Goodbye, Alan,” he calls as he does an overexaggerated wave.

  I laugh out loud at his un-Jameson-like behavior. “Goodbye, Alan.”

  We bunny hop out of the parking lot, and he takes my hand in his and kisses the back of it. “Where do you want to go, my little fuck bunny?”

  I smile over at my beautiful man. “Bumfuck nowhere.”

  Two hours later

  Jameson pulls into the driveway of Arndell, and I bounce in my seat. “We are going to our house?” I shriek in excitement.

  “Yes, I booked it for the weekend.”

  I unclip my seat belt and slide over and begin to smother his face in kisses as we drive up the driveway while he chuckles at my childlike behavior. We arrive at the old house, and I bounce out of the car before the car even stops and run up to the front door. I turn and stare out over the view of the beautiful grounds.

  “Oh, Jameson, I just love this place.” I smile dreamily as he walks up behind me.

  “I know.” He hands me a key ring with a red ribbon bow tied to it.

  I frown as I stare down at it in my hand.

  “That’s why I bought it for you.”

  My eyes meet his. “What?”

  “Uh-huh. I thought we could live here on the weekends and on holidays.”

  “You want to be a swamp person with me?” I whisper in surprise.

  He stands and takes me in his arms. “I could be anything, Emily Foster . . . as long as I’m with you.”

  Desperate to know more about the Miles brothers? Read on for an exclusive first chapter of the next book in the series, The Takeover, out very soon . . .

  Chapter 1

  The phone buzzes on my desk. “Hello,” I answer.

  “Hi, Tristan Miles is on line two for you,” Marley replies.

  “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “Claire.” She pauses. “This is the third time he’s called this week.”

  “So?”

  “Pretty soon, he’s going to stop calling.”

  “And your point is?” I snap in exasperation. I love Marley, but damn it, I wish she would mind her business. Sometimes, it really blows having your best friend as your receptionist.

  “My point is we paid the staff out of the overdraft this week. And I know you don’t want to admit this, but we are in trouble, Claire. You need to hear him out.”

  I exhale heavily and drag my hand down my face. I know she’s right: our company, Anderson Media, is struggling. We’re down to our last three hundred staff members, having downscaled from the original six hundred. Miles Media has been circling like wolves for months, watching and waiting for the perfect time to move in for the kill. Tristan Miles: the head of acquisitions and the archenemy of every struggling company in the world. Like a leech, he takes over companies when they’re at their lowest, tears them apart, and then with his never-ending funds, turns them into huge successes. He’s the lowest snake in the snake pit. Preying on weaknesses and getting paid millions of dollars a year for the privilege. He’s a rich, spoiled bastard with a reputation of being acutely intelligent, hard as nails, and conscience-free.

  He’s everything I hate about business.

  “Just listen to what he has to say—that’s all. You never know what he might offer,” Marley pleads.

  “Oh, come on,” I scoff. “We both know what he wants.”

  “Claire, please.” She pauses. “You can’t lose your family home. I won’t let that happen.”

  Sadness rolls over me; what a mess I’ve made of everything. “Fine.” I sigh, defeated. “Schedule a meeting.”

  “Okay, great.”

  “Don’t get excited,” I snap. “I’m just doing this to shut you up, you know?”

  “Good, mouth officially shut from here on out. Cross my heart.”

  I roll my eyes. “If only. Will you come with me?”

  “Yes, for sure. We’ll stick Mr. Fancy Pants’s checkbook where the sun doesn�
��t shine.”

  I giggle at the idea. “Okay, deal.”

  I hang up and go back to my report, wishing it were Friday and I didn’t have to worry about Anderson Media and the bills.

  I’m tired . . . so tired.

  Thursday morning Marley and I power down the street on the way to our meeting. “Why are we meeting here again?” I ask.

  “He wanted to meet somewhere neutral. He has a table booked at Bryant Park Grill.”

  “That’s odd—it’s not a date,” I scoff.

  “It’s probably all part of his grand plan.” She holds her hands up and does an air rainbow. “Neutral ground.” She widens her eyes in jest. “While he tries to fuck us up the ass.”

  “With a smile on his face.” I huff. “Oh god, I hate him already.”

  “So remember the strategy.” She coaches me as we walk.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me it again . . . so I remember it.”

  I smile. Marley is an idiot. A funny idiot nonetheless. “Stay calm; don’t let him ruffle my feathers. Don’t say an outright no—just keep him on ice in the background as an insurance policy.”

  “Yes, that’s a great plan.”

  “It should be . . . you thought of it.” We arrive at the restaurant. I take out my compact and reapply my lipstick. My dark hair is twisted up into a loose knot. I’m wearing a navy pantsuit with a cream silk blouse, closed-toe high-heeled patent pumps, and my pearl earrings. Sensible clothes—I want him to take me seriously. “Do I look okay?” I ask.

  “You look hot.”

  My face falls. “I don’t want to look hot, Marley. I want to look hard.”

  She scowls as she falls into character. “Totally hard.” She punches her hand with her fist. “Iron maiden snatch style.”

  I smirk at my gorgeous friend; her bright-red zany hair is short and punky, and her pink cat-eye glasses are in full swing. She’s wearing a red dress with a bright-yellow shirt underneath with red stockings and shoes. She’s so trendy that she’s actually scruffy. Marley is my best friend, my confidante, and the hardest worker in our company. She hasn’t left my side for the last five years; her friendship is a gift, and I have no idea where I would be without her.

  “Are you ready?” she asks.

  “Yes. We are twenty minutes early—I wanted to get here first. Get the upper hand.”

  Her shoulders slump. “When I ask you if you’re ready, you’re supposed to answer with, ‘I was born ready.’”

  I roll my eyes. “This isn’t a fucking Rocky Balboa movie, Marley,” I snap as I push past her. “Let’s get this over with.”

  We drop our shoulders, steel ourselves, and walk into the foyer. The waiter smiles. “Hello, ladies. How can I help you?”

  “Ah.” I glance at Marley. “We are meeting someone here.”

  “Tristan Miles?” he asks.

  I frown. How did he know that? “Yes . . . actually.”

  “He has the private dining room booked upstairs.” He gestures to the stairs.

  “Of course he does,” I mutter under my breath.

  Marley curls her lip in disgust, and we make our way up the stairs. The top floor is empty. We look around, and I see a man out on the balcony on his phone. Perfectly fit navy suit, crisp white shirt, tall and muscular. His hair is longer on top, dark brown with a curl. He looks like he belongs on a modeling shoot, not the snake pit at all.

  “Holy fuck . . . he’s hot,” Marley whispers.

  “Shut up,” I stammer in a panic that he will hear her. “Act fucking cool, will you?”

  “I know.” She hits me in the thigh, and I hit her back.

  He turns toward us and flashes a broad smile and holds up a finger, gesturing he will be just a moment. I fake a smile, and he turns his back to us to wrap up his call. I glare at his back as my anger rises. How dare he make us wait. “Don’t speak,” I whisper.

  “Can I whistle?” she whispers as she looks him up and down. “I totally want to wolf whistle the fuck out of this guy. Asshole or not.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose—this is a disaster already. “Please, just don’t speak,” I remind her again.

  “Okay, okay.” She does a zip-her-lips-closed gesture.

  He hangs up his call and walks toward us, confidence personified. Smiling broadly, he holds out his hand. “Hello, I’m Tristan Miles.” He’s all dimples and square jaw and white teeth and . . .

  I shake his hand like a truck driver, hard and emotionless. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson. Nice to meet you.” I gesture to Marley. “This is Marley Smithson, my assistant.”

  “Hello, Marley.” He smiles. “Nice to meet you.” He gestures to the table. “Please take a seat.”

  I sit down with my heart in my throat—great. As if I wasn’t ruffled already, he didn’t have to be good looking as well.

  “Coffee, tea?” He gestures to the tray. “I took the liberty of ordering us morning tea.”

  “Coffee, please,” I reply. “Just cream.”

  “Me too,” Marley adds.

  He carefully pours us our coffees and passes them over with a side plate of cakes.

  I clench my jaw to stop myself saying something snarky, and finally he takes a seat opposite us. He undoes his suit jacket with one hand and sits back in his chair. His eyes come to me. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Claire. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I raise my eyebrow in annoyance; I hate that his voice is husky and sexual. “Likewise,” I reply.

  I glance down and notice the black onyx-and-gold cufflinks and the fancy Rolex watch; everything about this guy screams money. His aftershave wafts between us. I try my hardest not to inhale, but it’s otherworldly. I glance over at Marley, who is smiling goofily as she stares at him . . . totally besotted.

  Great.

  He sits back, relaxed and confident, cool and calculating. “How has your week been?”

  “Fine, thanks,” I reply, my patience being tested. “Let’s just cut to the chase, Mr. Miles, shall we?”

  “Tristan,” he corrects me.

  “Tristan,” I reply. “Why do you want to meet with me so badly? What could possibly warrant you calling me five times a week for the last month?”

  He brushes his pointer over his big lips as if amused, and his eyes hold mine. “I’ve been watching Anderson Media for some time now.”

  I raise my eyebrow, angered by his tone. “And do tell: what have you learned?”

  “You are letting staff go every month.”

  “I’m downsizing.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “I’m not interested in what you’re offering, Mr. Miles,” I snap. I feel a sharp kick under the table to my ankle, and I wince in pain. Oww . . . that hurt. I glance at Marley. She widens her eyes in a shut-up-now signal.

  “How do you know I want to make you an offer?” he replies calmly.

  How many times has he had this conversation? “Don’t you?”

  “No.” He sips his coffee. “I would like to buy your company, but I’m not offering a free pass.”

  “Free pass,” I snap.

  Marley kicks me again . . . oh shit, that hurt. I throw her a dirty look, and she fakes a broad smile. Happy, happy, she mouths.

  “And what do you mean by a free pass, Mr. Miles?”

  “Tristan,” he corrects me.

  “I’ll call you whatever I want,” I snap.

  He gives me a slow, sexy smile as if loving every minute of this. “I can see you’re a passionate woman, Claire, and that’s admirable . . . but come on. Let’s be serious here.”

  I roll my lips, willing myself to stay silent.

  “The last three years your company has run at a massive loss. You’re losing advertising accounts left, right, and center.” He steeples his hand on his temple as he stares at me. “I’m guessing the financials are a nightmare.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat as we stare at each other.

  “I can take everything off your hands, and you can take
a hard-earned break.”

  Anger begins to pump through my blood. “You would love that, wouldn’t you? Play Mr. Nice Guy and take everything off my hands . . . come in on your horse and save the day like a white knight.”

  His eyes hold mine, and a trace of a smile crosses his face.

  “I will hold on to my company if it’s the last thing I do.” I feel a swift kick, and I jump, losing the last of my patience. “Stop kicking me, Marley,” I snap.

  Tristan breaks into a broad smile as he looks between us. “Keep kicking her, Marley,” he says. “Kick some sense into her.”

  I roll my eyes, embarrassed that my assistant is kicking the shit out of my ankles.

  He sits forward, his purpose renewed. “Claire, let’s get one thing straight. I always get what I want. And what I want is Anderson Media. I can take it now from you for a good price that will protect you. Or”—he shrugs casually—“I can wait for six months until the liquidators move in and get if for next to nothing, and you can face bankruptcy.” He steeples his hands on the table in front of him. “We both know the end is near.”

  “You self-conceited prick,” I whisper.

  He tilts his chin to the sky and smiles proudly. “Nice guys come last, Claire.”

  My heart begins to beat faster as my anger begins to build.

  “Think about it.” He takes out his business card and slides it across the table.

  TRISTAN MILES

  09488449467

  “I know this is not how you want to sell your company. But you need to be a realist,” he continues.

  I stare at him, sitting there all cold and heartless, and I feel my emotions bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

  Our eyes are locked. “Take the offer, Claire. I’ll email you a figure this afternoon. You will be taken care of.”

  My sanity rubber band snaps, and I sit forward. “And who will take care of my late husband’s memory, Mr. Miles?” I sneer. “Miles Media sure as hell won’t.”

  He twists his lips, uncomfortable for the first time.

  “Do you know anything about me and my company?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you’ll know that this company was my husband’s labor of love. He worked for twenty years to build it up from the ground. His dream was to hand down to his three sons.”