Miles and Miles of You, page 1
Table of Contents
Content Warning
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Discover more romance from Entangled… Love Out Loud
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Jennifer Bonds. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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rights@entangledpublishing.com
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Lydia Sharp and Liz Pelletier
Cover illustrated by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
ISBN 978-1-64937-263-5
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2022
At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.
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For the risk takers and the dreamers.
Chapter One
Lucy
I love my job.
I silently repeat the words like a mantra as my boss, Miles Hart, scrolls through his phone, doing God knows what.
Probably checking his Insta feed.
I tighten my grip on the stylus I’m holding, if only to avoid throwing it across the desk. If I had a dollar—hell, a quarter—for every time I’ve had to repeat myself during these daily briefings, my student loans would be a thing of the past and I wouldn’t have to choose between my Starbucks habit and paying rent.
If only.
I love my job.
Never in a million years did I think I’d find myself working in financial technology, but here I am, slogging away as an executive assistant in Silicon Hills. Don’t get me wrong, Triada Tech is a great company, and, aside from his fleeting attention span, Miles is an excellent boss.
He’s brilliant. Patient. Sexy.
Completely out of my league.
To be fair, Miles is in a league all his own. A self-made billionaire with sun-bleached hair, clear blue eyes, and the kind of wicked smile that leaves a trail of exploding ovaries in his wake—he’s basically the human equivalent of a unicorn.
Which probably makes me a lamb.
Or, if we’re keeping with equine theme, a mule.
One who’s spent far too many nights pining over a man who barely knows I exist.
I exhale slowly, the mindful breathing exercises almost second nature at this point.
On the other side of the desk, Miles swipes his phone screen. Again. I bite back my frustration and count to three before continuing.
“You have a ten o’clock conference call with Hillary to discuss the new advertising campaign,” I say, reviewing the meeting details on my tablet. “I told her you have a hard stop at ten thirty, but I set an alarm on your phone. Just in case.” Hillary has notoriously poor time management, and Miles is too nice to cut her off, even when he has back-to-back appointments. “Should I print a copy of the presentation for you?”
Miles doesn’t answer, and when I glance up, he’s staring at his computer monitor, brows flat, a look of intense concentration on his face.
Irritation sparks deep in my chest.
What is the point of these meetings if he doesn’t actually listen to a word I say? There are a million other things I could be doing right now. Things that would actually deliver results.
Admittedly, there was a time I wouldn’t have minded basking in the warm glow of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his sleek office, admiring the way his muscular forearms ripple when he types, but that time has passed.
I clear my throat—loudly.
Miles straightens, turning the full strength of his megawatt smile on me, and it’s all I can do not to swoon. Because reasons.
Stay strong, Lucy.
“Have you seen the reviews for Keke Bell’s new movie?” he asks, reaching for his coffee. The coffee I made him. “They’re even better than we’d hoped. If we can get her to sign the endorsement deal, it’ll be a huge win for Triada.”
Is he serious? I’m reviewing his schedule, and he’s scouring the web for movie reviews?
Un-freaking-believable.
My usually placid face must say everything my mouth doesn’t, because Miles pauses with the mug halfway to his mouth.
“I’m sorry.” He returns the coffee to his desk, untouched. “What were you saying?”
“I asked if you wanted me to print a copy of the presentation for the new advertising campaign.”
“No need.” He waves a hand dismissively and turns back to his monitor. “I’ll take the call from my desk.”
I continue reviewing the schedule, but he’s only half listening.
“You have a lunch meeting at Hestia to discuss the terms of the new consulting agreement. I called ahead and placed your order to save time, but you’ll want to skip coffee afterward, because there’s a zombie apocalypse scheduled for one thirty.” He doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “I’d hate for you to get infected before your date with Alicia tonight,” I continue. “She’s vegan, so consuming human flesh is probably a deal breaker.”
I pause, waiting for a reaction.
“Sounds good.”
Right. Because it just wouldn’t be Monday without an apocalyptic outbreak.
“Are you even listening?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice level.
Miles turns his attention to me, eyes bright. “Of course.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, staring at him across the top of his glossy white desk. On the surface, it’s pristine and well-organized, just like its owner. Underneath?
Not so much.
Miles flashes a disarming smile, stalling for time.
He really does have a great smile. Warm. Inviting. Just the hint of a dimple.
Stay strong, Lucy.
“You were saying something about…” He rakes a hand through his hair, no doubt racking his brain for a clue. “Dinner?”
The guess is as good as any, but I’m not bailing him out. Not this time.
I’m sick and tired of being overlooked. Ignored. Dismissed.
I may not be a sexy, charismatic billionaire, but my time—my work—matters.
“Perhaps if you’d bothered to listen to a word I was saying, you wouldn’t have to guess,” I snap. “You realize I won’t always be here to hold your hand, right?”
“Of course you’ll be here.” A quiet laugh rumbles past his lips. “You’re too loyal to leave me hanging.”
Ay, cabrón.
My chest tightens as the reality of our situation comes crashing down. For the last two years, I’ve managed every detail of Miles Hart’s life, from his laundry service to his weekly grocery order. I’ve planned dates, made reservations, answered his emails, picked out gifts for Mama Hart. I’ve given him everything I have to offer, and for what? So he can date gorgeous socialites while I run myself ragged, anticipating his every need?
Well, screw that.
I’m done being invisible. Done accommodating his every whim. Done hoping that one day he’ll wake up and see me the way I see him.
“I quit.” Legs shaking, I stand and clutch my tablet to my chest. “Consider this my two weeks’ notice.”
The pendejo actually bursts out laughing. “April Fools’ Day was last week, Luce.”
Any doubts I had are washed away by the wave of fury lapping at my consciousness.
“I’m serious, Miles. I quit.” I square my shoulders, channeling my in
His eyes narrow, and he leans back in his chair, assessing me. “You love your job too much to quit.”
Ten minutes ago, he would’ve been right. Mostly. I love working at Triada, and I’m damn good at my job, but I can’t stay here at the expense of my self-respect. It’s not like I’m asking for a lot—just to be seen and appreciated—but it’s never going to happen.
He’s not even taking my resignation seriously.
I stalk to the desk and grab a pen from the cobalt blue organizer bearing the Triada logo. Then I exchange my tablet for a block of Post-it Notes and hastily scrawl the words I quit along with my signature and the date. With a flourish, I peel the note off the pad and slap it on the center of his monitor.
Good luck ignoring that.
I turn back to him, forcing myself to meet the electric blue eyes that are my kryptonite. “Satisfied?”
Surprise flickers across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by skepticism.
Because of course it is.
“Not by half,” he says, voice low and growly. My breath hitches as Miles climbs to his feet, rising with the kind of athletic grace that can’t be taught. At six-two, he towers over me by nearly a foot, but I hold my ground as he leans forward and braces his palms on the desk, narrowing the gap between us and filling the air with the intoxicating scent of his cologne, a heady blend of citrus and cedarwood. “And what exactly are you planning to do when you leave Triada?”
Good question. In my anger, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“I’m—” I hesitate, searching for a plausible reply. Mierda. What am I going to do? Rage quitting felt great in the heat of the moment, but self-righteous indignation won’t pay the bills. Miles arches a brow in silent challenge, and my pulse spikes. Panic races up my spine, and I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m going to become a travel influencer.”
What the ever-loving fuck?
I might as well have told him I’m planning to fly a rocket to the moon.
And he knows it.
A sexy half smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “You won’t make any money.”
No kidding. You’ve got to be gorgeous and have millions of followers to get paid on social media. Case in point, Miles is in the midst of closing an endorsement deal with Hollywood’s latest it couple.
“I can, and I will,” I say, infusing my words with false confidence.
I may be low-key freaking out, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Life’s too short to waste time on things that don’t spark joy.
Or, you know, lusting after a guy who will never return the sentiment.
And as much as I care for Miles, I can’t keep doing this to myself. Can’t keep thinking one day he’ll see something other than a woman who’s great at organizing schedules and putting out fires around the office. I deserve to live my best life, on my own terms. That won’t happen if I’m busy working my ass off to make someone else’s dreams come true.
“Do you have any idea what it takes to become a travel influencer?” he asks.
Nope.
“I’ll learn.”
How hard can it be? I’ve always loved photography. Would’ve studied it in college if my parents hadn’t insisted on a degree in business administration.
“It’s going to be expensive,” he continues, throwing up roadblocks like it’s his job.
I shrug. I don’t have an answer for that—yet.
“Lucy,” he drawls, pitching his voice low, the way he always does when he wants something.
“Don’t you Lucy me.” I jab a finger toward him. No way am I going to let him charm his way back into my good graces. Not this time. “I’m serious, Miles. You’d better get HR on the phone and find a new assistant, because I’m putting you in the rearview mirror.”
Adios Miles, hola aventura.
Chapter Two
Miles
Three weeks later…
I’m in hell. Lucy’s only been gone one week, and I’m swimming in a cesspool of my own making. The phone is ringing nonstop, my office looks like a tornado blew through, and, like an asshole, I double-booked dinner on Wednesday. Talk about awkward. Even the maître d’ was at a loss for words when my second date arrived.
But the real cherry on top of the shit sundae?
Keke and Zane—the Hollywood power couple I’ve been courting for the last two months—had a nuclear blowup outside some L.A. club last night, which means Triada can kiss any hope of securing a joint endorsement deal goodbye.
Seven days.
Seven. Fucking. Days.
That’s all it took for my life to implode without Lucy.
I shove a stack of reports aside, searching for my cell. It’s buried somewhere in the mess on top of my desk. At least, I hope it is.
“You’re late.”
At the sound of Nick’s gruff voice, I glance up to find my brother standing in the doorway looking twelve kinds of put out. No surprise there. Nick’s a stickler for punctuality, and, according to the clock in the lower right corner of my monitor, I’m twenty minutes late for our weekly business dinner.
“I was in a marketing meeting that ran long,” I say, resuming my search.
Where is that damn phone?
It’s not unusual for me to lose a cell—or five—but with my life in shambles, I don’t have time to chase down a replacement.
Especially on a Friday night.
If Lucy were here, she’d probably have a replacement tucked away in her desk.
She had a knack for anticipating problems before they arose. It was just one of the many talents that made her indispensable. A fact I’m realizing far too late.
“Maybe if you’d grow some balls and explain the concept of time management to Hillary,” Nick says, “you wouldn’t have this problem.” He pauses, and I don’t have to look to know he’s smirking when he speaks again. “You realize she works for you, right?”
Relief washes over me when I spot my cell wedged between the computer monitor and the landline.
“You know what your problem is?” I grab the phone and slide it into the pocket of my rumpled dress pants. “You expect everyone to think and act just like you.”
He snorts and gives my messy desk a pointed look. “From where I’m standing, that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.”
My left eye twitches—another delightful new development this week—and I give him the finger. The last thing I need right now is a lecture. “Are we going to eat, or what?”
Nick turns on his heel, and I grudgingly follow as he leads the way to the boardroom.
Most weeks, I look forward to Friday night dinner with my brothers. It’s an opportunity to catch up on business with no distractions, but I’m not in the mood tonight.
When Nick, Beck, and I started Triada Tech, we were just a few hungry entrepreneurs, creating something from nothing in our foster mother’s basement. Seven years later, Triada’s mobile payment system has changed the face of FinTech. Transformed three rough-and-tumble orphans into billionaires shaping the future of Silicon Hills and rubbing elbows with Austin’s elite.
Talk about the ultimate head trip.
Hell, some days it still feels like a dream.
Which is why I’ve made a point of never forgetting my roots. Never forgetting where I come from or how quickly it can all come tumbling down.
All it takes is a moment. One error in judgment. One mistake you can’t take back.
I shove the thoughts to the back of my mind as we enter the boardroom. Beck is already seated at the long white table, reclining in a cobalt chair with the Triada logo—three interlocking triangles—printed on the back. Judging by the half-eaten salad before him, he’s been here a while.
“Took you long enough,” he says around a mouthful of rabbit food. When his eyes land on me, he does a double take, gaze lingering on my wrinkled shirt. “You look like shit.”
This, from a guy who’s wearing a faded Green Day T-shirt and hasn’t had a haircut in three months.
“I forgot to schedule the laundry service.”
That’s not strictly true, but no way am I telling him the real story. I’d never hear the end of it.
I grab a bottle of water from the minibar and take my usual seat near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling Triada campus.
