Thieving bastard.
“I’ve got to go and see someone. Back in a minute.” I practically run to the elevator and take it to the top floor. Why didn’t he say anything to me?
“Hello,” I say as I brush through reception.
“Excuse me, Emily,” the receptionist calls. “He’s not taking visitors ri
ght now.”
“Whatever.” I storm through to Jameson’s office, and I knock on the door.
“Yes?” he barks.
I open the door to find him sitting behind his large desk; blue eyes rise to meet mine. “What is it?” he asks coldly.
I walk in and close the door behind me. “I saw the story.”
“And?”
“Well . . . why didn’t you tell me? It was my story. I thought you would have at least told me.”
“Ms. Foster.” He clenches his jaw as if I’m a huge annoyance. “I don’t have time to play your juvenile games.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m very busy.” He goes back to typing.
I stare at him for a moment. What?
“Close the door on your way out, please.”
The fucking nerve of this man. He sleeps with me while he’s seeing someone else and then has the audacity to treat me like this. Something snaps deep inside me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Here we go,” he mutters under his breath.
“What?” I cry. “Here we go? Are you fucking serious?”
He rests his chin on his hand as he glares at me.
“What was last night? Huh?” I cry. Alarm bells start screaming around me. This is the worst thing I could possibly do, but I’ve lost all control. “You’re seeing someone else?” I stammer. “Who’s Chloe, Jameson?”
His eyebrow rises, and he stands and walks toward the door. “Out.”
“What?” I snap in disbelief. “You’re kicking me out?”
“What I’m doing is being professional. I suggest you do the same thing.” He stands over me.
“You know what?” I whisper up at him through tears of rage. “You can go fuck yourself.”
He glares at me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Chloe is my masseuse. I had an appointment with her last night that I wasn’t home for. Those text messages came through hours after she sent them.”
I stare at him as my heart hammers in my chest.
“Do not check my fucking phone ever again.” He sneers as he turns his back on me and goes and sits back at his desk.
I stare at him through tears. I feel . . . used. “I thought we had something.”
“So did I.” His cold eyes hold mine. “But you fucked that up this morning when you left like a two-year-old.” He turns back to his computer.