Page 50 of Miles Apart
When it was time to let go, we did.
We ended on my terms, taking whatever pleasure we could during the days we spent together. It was perfect—tooperfect—but ending it was the right call. Miles and I resealed the attraction we unboxed, and we’ll never touch it again.
Miles attended to my every need without instruction. He took, but he also gave freely. The way he directed my body had me taking naps for the first time since I can remember, which I’m sure made the jet lag easier.
I can’t shake him, his touch, or his scent. My name danced across his tongue in a rich baritone every time he moaned. Italy was incredible, but for my sanity, and to prevent pussy depression, I need to move on from Miles.
I’ll call Zayn tonight. After I eat.
I lift onto the toes of my black heels to reach for a bottle of champagne and grab air.What the?I pat around for any hidden bottles but come up short.
“Not today, Satan,” I mumble. I’m practically hanging off the shelf to do a pull-up I can’t hold. Is it ridiculous? Yes, but I don’t care.
A woman wants what a woman wants, and my champagne is nonnegotiable.
An employee confirms that the store is in fact sold out. One bottle remained, but someone grabbed it minutes before I came in. Just my damn luck.
I pay for my groceries, storm to my car, and take my ass back home. Champagne-less, hungry, and very horny.
My mind shifts away from my empty stomach, back to Italy and Miles eating me within an inch of my life.
You taste so fucking good, kitten.
Cream for me, kitten.
Let that shit drip, kitten.
The phantom touch of his words still tempts my thighs apart. Did he make it to California?
What would you do if he did?
I breathe a sigh of relief at the incoming call notification on my navigation screen. But then my eyes shift from the Pacific Coast Highway to the name in white letters. I’m too hungry for what will no doubt be an unnecessary debate about my life and the ways I’ve let it waste away. It’s my business, not a topic for discussion. I push “accept” and straighten in my leather seat.
“Hello, Mother.” A Sunday conversation is rare.Anyconversation is, but Juliette Douglass will wear you down until she gets what she wants at whatever cost. What that cost is in this case remains to be seen.
“Emma.” The two syllables lack a mother’s warmth for her child, the namesake of the grandmother she claims to have loved. “Did you return from your trip?” Disinterest travels from the East Coast, where my mother is no doubt primping herself for a social activity.
“I got in from Milan last night,” I confirm. She wouldn’t care if I was in Italy or onSesame Street. My mother never asks about my work or its related travels because she doesn’t care.
“I hope you remembered about this Friday.”
“What’s this Friday?” I frown at the screen. She has a habit of committing me to events I never know about in advance, assuming I’ll drop everything or that my father’s staff managed to reach me. Friday night rings no bells. They can make arrangements with the Four Seasons. No one stays in my house, not that my family ever asked to.
Disappointment laces my mother’s sigh, one she drags out for longer than necessary. “We’re flying to Los Angeles to attend a fundraising event with a regional business council. It’s a wonderful opportunity for your father. You will be there, yes?”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard of it, but I can stop by,” I say, pushing to the button for the garage door. My Mercedes pulls to the center of the two-car space, where I cut off the engine.
The garage door closes as I tap in the code and walk up the small set of stairs to access the main level of my waterfront property. My mother is still scolding me, but what else is new?
I step on wide plank floors and drop my keys into the small dish on an accent table in the mudroom area. It’s small and leads to the kitchen I never use across from the living and dining space. The star of my home is the three-million-dollar view of the Pacific Ocean from the floor-to-ceiling pocket doors. My mother will never acknowledge my work, but blood, sweat, and heels afforded me what I have. I’m damn proud, even if it will never be good enough.
I’m across from my living room fireplace with a glass of wine by the time my mother finishes her speech on the importance of the Douglass family legacy and doing my part. I nod along and pepper in some “mm-hmms” while ordering sushi from one of my favorite spots nearby.
“Will Miles be your plus-one? You two are still together?”
My mother’s question catches me off guard, pulling my focus away from the lobster roll on the takeout menu and toward the memory of Miles holding me under the spray of the showerhead. The silent glances we shared. Tender. Inquisitive. Reassuring.
I’ve contemplated every what-if scenario since the retreat, finding our way back to each other in New York, and him following me to Milan.
