by Swan, T L
“I’m nervous.”
He smiles sexily. “You’ll be fine.”
“Don’t let me drink too much, okay?”
“Okay.” He smirks as we walk to the door.
“And if you see me drinking too much, take my glass from me.”
He frowns.
“Honestly, Jay, I go from a level four to a ten in two mouthfuls.”
He smirks and then, thinking on that statement further, throws his head back and laughs out loud. “Not a truer word has ever been spoken.”
I drop my mouth open in fake horror. “I’m not talking about head, Jameson.”
“I am.” He kisses my hand. “And for the record, you went from a ten to a twenty.”
I smirk, and he bends and kisses my neck and then my shoulder and then my breast through my dress.
“The sooner we go, the sooner we can leave.” He runs his hand down my behind and gives me a sharp slap.
Half an hour later, the limo pulls into the parking bay, and I look around at all the beautiful people in black tie. As my nerves begin to kick me hard, Jameson picks up my hand and kisses the back of it, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
What will I say to his mother? His father? Oh hell . . . why did I come?
Alan opens the door, and Jameson climbs out and then takes my hand and helps me. His hand tenderly goes to my lower back. “Thank you,” he says to Alan.
“Thank you.” I smile.
Jameson takes my hand, and we walk up toward the large front doors. A few people do a double take as they see us, and people are staring. I hold my breath as he leads me through the crowd. “Hello, Jameson,” someone says.
He nods politely but doesn’t stop to chat. We walk in through the double doors, and he leads me straight to a table up at the front. It’s round with a white linen tablecloth and silver cutlery all lined up, and beautiful white flowers and candles sit in the center.
Crap, what’s the eating order of the cutlery? I need to go to the bathroom and google this shit. Jameson’s father is sitting at the table along with an older woman. She has dark hair that sits in a perfect bob. She’s very attractive and wearing a glamorous black evening dress with long sleeves.
“Mom, Dad, this is Emily.” He presents me proudly. “These are my parents, Elizabeth and George.”
“Hello, dear.” His mother stands and kisses both my cheeks and holds me at arm’s length as she inspects me. “Well, aren’t you something special.” She smiles warmly.
Oh, she’s nice. I smile awkwardly, and his father pulls me from his mother and kisses my cheek. “Hello, Emily. I didn’t get a chance to talk with you properly the other day. Lovely to meet you.”
“Yes, you too,” I whisper.
Jameson pulls out my chair, and I sit down as my heart races in my chest. I can feel my face flushing, and I silently die a little. Don’t go red now, stupid. I get an image of a beetroot face sitting next to Mr. Gorgeous here. Jameson pours me a glass of champagne and passes it over.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I take it from him. My eyes hold his in a silent “help me” signal.
He gives me a sexy wink and slings his arm around the back of my chair. “Where’s Tris?” he asks casually as he looks around the room.
“On his way,” his father replies.
I look around at all the people filling the ballroom. The who’s who are here—not that I remember any of their names. I’m only going on what Molly and Aaron prepped me with today. Two of the managers I’ve seen upstairs on the top floor arrive with their dates. “Hello.” They all shake hands, and then the men frown when they see me.
“Have you met Emily, my girlfriend?” Jameson asks them.
“Oh yes.” They smile in an over-the-top way. “Hello, Emily,” the four of them splutter before shaking my hand and sitting down at our table.
Jameson sits next to me, and his father is on the other side of him, then his mother, then the other four. Two seats are to my left—must be for Tristan.
“Hello,” Tristan says happily from behind me. I turn and see that the blonde woman is with him.
“Hello,” everyone calls.
“Emily, this is Melina,” Tristan introduces me.
“Hello.” I shake her hand.
“Hello.” She smiles as she takes a seat beside me and looks around the table. “I just couldn’t decide what to wear tonight. How is everyone?”
The table instantly falls into chatter.
She’s confident and beautiful, and she looks like a high-fashion model rather than a . . . what does she do again?
I glance over to see Jameson and his father subtly roll their eyes at each other. Hmm, what’s that about?
Tristan begins to talk to a man at the table next to us and laughs out loud. He really is very friendly.
Melina takes out her phone and pulls a duck mouth and takes a selfie. She leans toward me. “Get in,” she says. “I’ll tag you.”
I pull out of her grip and lean away. “No thank you.” I smile. “I don’t do social media.”
“What?” she gasps as she looks me up and down in disgust. “Why on earth not? What’s wrong with you?”
Okay . . . this woman’s a rude pig.
“I don’t like social media, that’s all.” I shrug.
“What’s not to like?” She keeps taking her own photo.
I stare at her deadpan. “A misrepresentation of society with unrealistic images that portray a fake lifestyle with impossible ideals,” I reply as I sip my wine. Don’t piss me off, bitch.
Jameson smirks as he stares straight ahead. His finger circles on my bare shoulder.
“Oh God.” She rolls her eyes and takes another selfie.
I glance over, and Jameson’s mother smirks and winks at me.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. God, cut out the snarky bitch act, Emily, I remind myself. Just be nice for once.
Jameson and his father fall into conversation, and I sit quietly. The waiter comes over and goes to refill my glass. “No thank you.” I smile.
Melina talks to the other people at the table; she’s laughing loudly and loves attention. She’s not at all the type of woman I thought Tristan would go for.
“Emily, you must come and visit us in the Hamptons,” Jameson’s mother says.
“Thank you.” I smile. “That would be lovely.” I should try to make conversation. “Do you go on weekends?” I ask.
“We live there mostly now,” she says. “We still have our apartments here, of course, but the change of pace is lovely.”
“Oh.” I smile. How many apartments do they have here? Jeez, they really are from a different world. “Sounds great.”
“Jameson said you are from California?” she asks.
“Yes.” I fake a smile. He told them about me? “I’ve only been here a month.”
“And what do you think of New York?”
“I love it.” I smile. “It’s amazing.”
Jameson’s hand sits on my shoulder for moral support while he talks to his father.
“Jameson told us that you met each other more than twelve months ago,” Elizabeth continues.
“Yes.” I fake a smile. Oh dear God. What did he tell them about how we met? Please don’t let it be the truth, that we sat next to each other on a boozy flight and flirted like sex-starved fools and then had wild layover sex for twelve hours while I tried to suck every last drop of blood from his neck. I pick up my wine and tip my head back and kick Jameson’s foot.
Help me, fucker.
He smiles as if he already knows what’s going on in my head.
Tristan finally takes a seat, and Melina leans over and kisses him. “Let’s go mingle.”
He frowns as he takes his first sip of scotch. “No, babe. I’m staying here. Knock yourself out.”
Melina waves at a woman on the other side of the room and stands. “Back in a moment.” She smiles to the table as she practically runs to the woman and air kisses her two cheeks. “Darling,” she cries
, and they fake gush over each other.
My eyes find Jameson’s, and he rolls his lips in amusement. It’s as if he can read my mind.
She’s a twit.
Jameson’s jaw tilts skyward, and his tongue runs across his teeth as if he’s angered. I follow his line of sight and see a group of men and women arriving at a table across from us. My eyes flick to his father and mother as they look on as well.
“Who are they?” I whisper.
“The Ferrara family.”
I frown in question.
“They own the Gazette and Ferrara Media.”
My eyes widen. “Oh.” I go back to watching them as they all sit around the table. Three sons and a mother and father, Italian by the looks of it. Gorgeous-looking people . . . all dark hair and brown eyes. Only one son has a date; the other two are alone. The eldest son looks over and smiles when he sees us. He waves and dips his head. Jameson dips his head back in a polite but cold gesture.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
“Gabriel Ferrara,” Jameson replies as he sips his drink. Contempt drips from his every pore. “The CEO.”
My eyes widen. I can tell that there is no love lost between the two families.
CEO versus CEO.
“Emily?” a woman’s voice gasps from behind us.
We all turn to see a woman. I know her. “Athena.” I laugh as I stand. Athena is in her sixties and a woman of the world. I adore her.
“Oh my God,” she gasps as she pulls me into an embrace. “Jameson Miles, how on earth do you know Emily Foster?”
He chuckles.
“Emily has been my intern every college holiday for three years.” Athena laughs.
George looks on as if impressed.
“She wouldn’t move here for my company.” She smiles as she rubs my arm.
“What do you mean?” George asks.
“Best damn reporter I ever had,” Athena replies. “I’ve offered her a job every year, but she always turned me down, stating that Miles Media would be the only reason she would move to New York.”
I smile awkwardly. Please shut up. I’m trying to play it cool here.
“Is that so?” George smiles over at me. “Well, she’s found her place at Miles Media.”
Athena looks down at Jameson’s hand as it rests on my lap. “I can see that.” She smiles down at me. “Emily, come, I have someone I want you to meet.” She glances at Jameson. “Can I steal her for a moment, please?”
“Of course.” He kisses my hand before he lets me go. His eyes linger on my face, and I smile softly.
This man is just so . . .
Athena pulls me over to the other side of the room. “Oh my God,” she splutters as we weave between the tables. “You’re dating Jameson Miles.”
“Yes.” I laugh.
“He’s the most delicious man on the planet.” She turns back and smiles at me. “And the crankiest.” I giggle as she drags me to the bar to a group of women and men who are all standing around. “Lauren, look who’s here! Emily Foster.”
“Oh my God.” Lauren laughs as she hugs me. Lauren and I were interns together in our second year. Lauren went on to work with them. “What are you doing here?” She smiles excitedly.
“I’ve moved to New York now. I work for Miles Media.”
“Really?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
“Oh my God, we have to catch up.”
“Yes.” It would be so nice to have a friend here that I don’t work with. “Make sure we get each other’s numbers.”
I glance around, and everyone has a drink. “I’m just going to get another champagne.”
Someone grabs my elbow from behind, and I turn. I’m taken aback. It’s the tall Italian man, the CEO of the Gazette.
“Hello.” He smiles sexily down at me.
“Hi.”
“Who are you?” he asks.
I frown, and my eyes flick back to my table. Jameson is talking to Tristan. “Emily,” I reply nervously.
He picks up my hand and kisses the back of it. “My name is Gabriel Ferrara.”
“Oh.”
“And I like to take over all things owned by Jameson Miles.”
My eyes widen.
His dark eyes drop to my lips. “Women included.”
Chapter 18
“Excuse me?” I frown as I snatch my hand from his grip. “What did you say?”
He smiles sexily. “I was merely stating that you are gorgeous. Don’t be alarmed.”
“Well, don’t,” I snap.
He smiles as he sips his drink, clearly amused by my response. “Who are you?”
“Someone whose intelligence is insulted by your audacity. Goodbye, Mr. Ferrara. Go away.” I turn my back to him and take my place at the bar.
His lips come to my ear from behind. “Lovely to meet you, Emily. We will meet again. I’ll make sure of it.” His breath prickles my neck, and traitorous goose bumps scatter up my arms.
“Don’t bother,” I sneer, annoyed by my physical reaction to him.
My heart is hammering. No wonder poor Jameson is stressed to the max. He’s dealing with complete and utter snakes here.
Good grief, I’m completely rattled.
I get my drink and go back to talking to Lauren, although my mind is anywhere but on our conversation.
That fucking asshole Gabriel is sabotaging Jameson’s company and is openly making a play for his women.
Woman.
I feel outraged on his behalf, and I want to march over and tell Jameson what just happened, but then I don’t want to stress him out. But maybe that’s exactly what Gabriel wants—an open war.
Shit . . . this is hectic.
From my place by the bar, I watch as person after person goes and strategically says hello to the Miles family at their table, as if wanting to be acknowledged by them. Tristan is all smiles and happy, and Jameson and his father are polite. It’s blatantly obvious to me that they are not at all seduced or fooled by the fake greetings and well wishes.
After the longest conversation in history, I make my way back to Jameson. I sit beside him, and he takes my hand in his and puts it on his thigh.
“Do you like these people here?” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “I like the people at this table.”
I look around nervously.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sensing that something is off.
“Nothing,” I whisper as I lean in and kiss him softly on the lips. “I don’t particularly like any of these people.”
“Me neither, and as long as you like me, that’s all that matters,” he murmurs.
I smile over at my beautiful man and lean up to whisper in his ear, “I more than like you.”
He squeezes my hand in his. “Two hours, and we can go,” he whispers.
“Good.”
Dinner has been served, we are on to dessert, and the award ceremony is about to take place.
The lights are dimmed, and the stage is lit up by a spotlight as they go through the categories. They must start with the smaller awards first.
Jameson sits and stares at the stage as he holds my hand on his large muscular thigh. He’s completely expressionless, and I have no idea what he’s thinking.
He does it so well, keeps his emotions completely under control. Tristan is laughing and talking about the categories with the other managers sitting at the table. He’s completely relaxed and having a good night.
How are two brothers so different?
Tristan is open and jovial, and Jameson is closed and hard . . . at least to the outside world.
Although, knowing what Tristan’s role is in the company—acquisitions—he has to be hard on some level. Perhaps even harder than the rest of them because he takes over companies and dissolves them. I think on it for a moment as I stare at Jameson. No, that’s impossible—nobody could be harder than Jameson. My eyes flick to his father, who wears the same steely face as he watches the stage . . . perhaps George is.
>
I think back to Jameson’s childhood and how he went to boarding school overseas with his brothers. How do you learn to be soft and nurturing when you’re in a cold school environment? I wonder if that is why he’s all or nothing with me.
Does he have to give himself permission to feel before he can physically do it?
It would make sense. I mean, since he told me he wants me, we’ve moved forward in leaps and bounds. Every touch I feel him let me in a little more. Is it because he can finally verbalize things now?
I exhale heavily as I clap for an award. My mind is far from here. I’m fixed on the complex man I’ve fallen for, as I try to unravel his inner demons.
Maybe Jay needs to talk about the company. Maybe he needs someone he doesn’t have to pretend with that he has everything under control.
He’s the CEO of Miles Media. The family is looking to him for guidance. Waiting for him to rectify the situation.
Of course he’s stressed.
The reporter in me wants to deal with this situation, find the leak, and fight our way back to the top.
The lover in me wants to steal my Jay away and take him to an island in the Bahamas and let him live a peaceful, relaxed lifestyle . . . where the only thing he has to worry about is pushing his children on a swing.
His children.
I feel my chest constrict as I get a peep into the future with Jameson.
Will his children bear this stress? Will they be able to feel their father’s worry through his touch?
They’d have to—I know I do.
God, I need to wind him down so that he can deal with all of this crap. How do I do that? I think for a moment and clap on cue as another award is announced.
He needs to get out of New York. Yes, that’s it. A weekend away. Somewhere crazy different. I smile as the idea takes shape in my mind.
“And now for the major award for the night,” the MC announces. “The Diamond Award for exceptional media coverage goes to . . .”
The drum rolls.
He opens the envelope and smiles with a shake of his head. “Well, well . . . it seems we have a changing of the guard.”
The crowd falls silent.
“Ferrara Media.”
The crowd applauds, and the Ferrara table erupts into cheers. Jameson clenches his jaw and sips his drink.