Love on Hold Read online

  Love on Hold

  Mia Miller

  Contents

  1. “Smooth Talker.”

  2. “How Was Your Interview?”

  3. “Who’s TDL?”

  4. “Do You Like Ribs?”

  5. “You’re My High.”

  6. “You’re Mine!”

  7. “Thinking of You.”

  8. “I’m Addicted.”

  9. “I Think I Have a Crush on You.”

  10. “Image Download.”

  11. “Dick Pic.”

  12. “Orgasm-Landia.”

  13. “Come Home.”

  14. “Fire Alarm.”

  15. “What Were the Odds?”

  16. “I Will Give You Five More Days?”

  17. “Batman or Superman?”

  18. “I Want to Kiss You.”

  19. “That Damned Hair Like Honey.”

  20. “You Know My Number.”

  21. “Kiss Me, Joel.”

  22. “Mesmerized.”

  23. “You Have a Type.”

  24. “I Keep My Promises.”

  25. “You Give Good Apology.”

  26. “Silly Girl.”

  27. “What Is It About You?”

  28. “Do My Beard.”

  29. “Just Visiting.”

  30. “Are You Kidding Me?”

  31. “You’ll Do.”

  32. “Love Is Worth Fighting For.”

  33. “I Wouldn’t Be Anywhere Else.”

  34. “Only One Leonie.”

  Epilogue

  Letter

  Acknowledgments

  CONNECT WITH MIA

  Read the Prologue to Mia’s next book!

  To anyone who has ever loved someone from afar

  Love, on Hold

  Copyright © 2018 Mia Miller

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Mia Miller

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  Cover Design by Cover Me, Darling

  Editing by AW Editing

  Proofreading by Judy’s Proofreading

  Formatting by AB Formatting

  One

  “Smooth Talker.”

  LEONIE

  Seven Months Before Graduation

  The night that changed my life, I had left my phone on the nightstand close to my head, which was not something usual for me. I had just been so tired when I got into bed that I entirely forgot to toss it somewhere far where its notifications wouldn’t bother me.

  It was just my luck that my phone decided to ring at three forty-five in the morning, waking me up.

  “’Lo?”

  “Already asleep, beautiful?”

  I didn’t know the deep voice from the other end of the line, but it did the trick and brought me to full consciousness. I rolled onto my back.

  “Who is this?”

  There was a short silence.

  “Is this not 736-8778?” I could hear confusion in his gruff tones.

  “Do you not know what number you dialed at three in the morning?” I mimicked his confusion.

  “Did you not dance against my lap not one hour ago?” he insisted.

  What? Gross!

  “Okay, mister, I think you got wrong-numbered. I was asleep when you called, and I was asleep one hour ago.”

  And I would be asleep again as soon as the guy on the other end of the line let me go. As much as I loved sleep, I always felt like I didn’t get enough of it.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” he said, and for some reason, he didn’t sound sorry at all.

  “All right then, good night.”

  “Wait!”

  The one word was a plea, and I stayed my hand.

  “Listen, I’m tired and not in the mood for phone sex with a stranger,” I grumbled.

  His low chuckle was delicious and made my skin tingle.

  “I’m not in the mood for phone sex either.”

  “Oh … kay?”

  I waited.

  “I just … need some company until I get home.”

  It occurred to me that he was breathing as if he’d been walking. Fast.

  I flipped the light on and started fluffing my pillow.

  “Do you live in a bad area or something?”

  That rich laughter filled my ear again.

  “What if I did? Are you a ninja who can appear out of thin air to protect me?” His chuckle was soft but clear. “No, that isn’t it. I’m just addicted to working out in any shape or form, and I hadn’t had my cardio today, so …”

  “Right.” I scoffed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d purposefully worked out. “Technically, you’re getting your cardio in for the next day, since it’s after midnight,” I teased.

  “You have a lovely voice, even with all the snark.”

  Smooth talker.

  “I see. Do you do this often? Flirt with random strangers in the middle of the night? Is it fun for you?” It was only my words that kept some of my initial bite, but then I heard my tone softening. Smooth talking or not, he was hitting the spot.

  “Only when I find someone that sounds as interesting as you do.”

  It was at that moment that Glue chose to jump onto me—more specifically onto my stomach, making me exhale loudly. “Oomph, get off!”

  “Well, that sounded like a sex noise a little,” he said and seemed to stifle a groan himself.

  “It’s just my roommate’s dog. I guess he was lonely.”

  “Okay. I’m walking into my building. Thank you for your lovely company, I think it’s time to leave you alone and catch some shut-eye,” he said.

  “Wow, you’re going to leave a girl hanging, just like that?” I asked.

  “Charmed already, aren’t you?” he asked and I rolled my eyes as he went on. “Well, I already have your number, so it isn’t as if I can’t call you again.”

  “What do you have it saved under?” I really did like his voice, but he could be a creep, a psychopath, a stalker. Having watched too many slasher movies wasn’t helping my decision at all.

  “Busty blonde three.”

  I couldn’t help it; I chuckled.

  “Wow. At least you’re honest. Well, for me, you got one right.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t think I want you to know right now.”

  “I promise that I don’t usually bite.”

  I caught myself giggling.

  “Yeah, right. For the purpose of this conversation, you may call me Scissors.”

  “That’s a bit … scary. What do you usually do with scissors?”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you another time.” I left that hanging in the air, wondering why we’d be talking again.

  “Right. Then, mystery chick, I should let you go back to sleep before I wear out all of your four a.m. patience. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “And a little bit creepy,” I added, but right before we hung up, it occurred to me I hadn’t asked him.

  “Wait. What about your name?”

  “Tsk, tsk. Since I don’t kno
w yours, I’ll just be your regular … tall and dark guy for now.”

  “Not handsome too?”

  “I reserve the right to be modest twice a day.”

  When we hung up, I was smiling. Glue cuddled around my feet, and I fell asleep with the stranger’s low voice as a pleasant afterthought.

  Two

  “How Was Your Interview?”

  JOEL

  I woke with my temples pounding and my mouth still tasting like the scotch I had been drinking last night. A blur of events rushed through my mind. My father yelling at me over the phone. Again. The short-haired, scantily clad girl from the bar smiling pretty. Turned out, she did it for a free drink, which was fine by me. Then the unexpected voice at the end of a wrong number and the weird calm it brought me with just a few sentences. Her voice … her fucking voice was so sweet I felt it in my cock.

  Not just that, though. Right after I’d talked to her, sleep came to me easier than all the other nights.

  I looked at the last number dialed and raised an eyebrow. I’d saved her as Scissors. Strange.

  Me: I woke up with that husky voice of yours in mind.

  Her answer came immediately.

  Scissors: Are you harassing me?

  Me: Depends on whether you like it or not?

  Scissors: What’s in it for me?

  Me: The voice and opinions of a very honest, very male friend.

  Scissors: Hmmm. I might accept that. Weird text buddies it is …

  Me: Right. I’m hoping this short talk will be my good luck charm today.

  Scissors: Good luck for what?

  Me: To knock ’em dead during an interview.

  Scissors: I’ll send a good vibe or two, lonely guy.

  I smirked, rolled out of bed, and pulled on a pair of sweats.

  I moved through our apartment in Oak Creek, a combo of luxury and campus nearness that not many could afford. I was lucky I’d found the ad online when I did. Levi was a good roommate. If you were into large men with hacking skills and unruly hair. Or, such as my case, if you needed someone to leave you and your thoughts alone. I could hear him typing away like a maniac.

  I opened the door to his lair and saw his beard and hair wilder than usual. He was buff for a nerd, and he had two states: typing away at his computer or training in the boxing gym with me.

  I took in his bloodshot eyes and the empty energy drink cans and takeout containers lying around him.

  “Dude, when was the last time you slept?” I asked in lieu of good morning.

  He waved me off, not stopping his typing.

  “So last night, I met a girl …”

  My roommate barked a laugh without pausing.

  “How’s that news for you?”

  “Some chick at the bar gave me a wrong number. She was hot, so I called her on the way home.”

  He whistled.

  “That hot, huh?”

  “She was, but the girl I ended up calling, who was a totally different person, by the way, was far more interesting. She had a cute voice.”

  But I’d lost Levi’s attention.

  “Lame. Thought I saw a Post-it about an interview today? Go. Away!” he said without stopping his typing.

  “Yes, I’m driving to San Francisco.”

  Levi just lifted his chin in my general direction.

  “Break a leg this time, man,” he grumbled.

  “You’re going to run out of batteries, Robot. What is this, the fifth night in a row you’re not sleeping?” I asked, genuinely curious how he wasn’t coming apart at the seams. I couldn’t sleep since I was a teen and would run to get myself exhausted, but with Levi, insomnia came by choice.

  “Just have to end this tournament, my team is winning.”

  I barked a laugh.

  “I thought you were doing something important, not playing.”

  He stopped and looked at me for the first time.

  “This is important to her. Do you want me to find out who this mystery chick is? Is this why you’re pestering me?”

  I held my breath.

  “You could do that?”

  “If you have her phone number, sure. My longest took me twenty minutes,” he said.

  “Let me talk to her a few more times, and I’ll let you know.” I mock saluted him and turned back to the hallway.

  “Are you going on a blind date with her?” he asked me before I closed his door.

  “Nah. We’re just going to text for a while, see where that leads.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but the pen pal stuff died in the nineties,” he taunted.

  Eh, I’d give it a go, anyway.

  An hour later, I was climbing into my car when my phone rang.

  “Dick.” I answered the call, hearing with some satisfaction his huff at my insult.

  Richard. That was my father’s actual name. But father, Dad, or Richard were names I’d stopped calling him when I was fourteen. I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. It had to be almost noon in New York, my father successfully finishing his morning meetings and heading to one of his business lunches to talk politics and work. In reality, he was more likely going to slowly drink himself into stupor by five in the afternoon. He’d still be lucid enough to interact with his employees until he’d reach our mansion, then he’d drink himself into blacking out.

  “Son. Always with that cheeky mouth on you.”

  As always, he spoke through his teeth, as if he detested even the air he wasted while talking to me.

  “What do you want?” I asked, wishing he’d let me go so I could see to my day. His foul moods always seemed to rub off on me when we spoke for more than five minutes.

  “You know what I want. Come back to New York.”

  Right. As if it were simple.

  “It’s almost the middle of the semester, and besides, you didn’t seem that heartbroken when I left. It took you a whole week to figure out I wasn’t living with you anymore.”

  The day I’d turned twenty-one and was able to access the trust fund my grandfather had left for me, I’d arranged for an immediate move from NYU.

  “No one told you to go there,” he gritted the words down the line.

  It was a good thing I was lingering in the parking lot. His indifference and ignorance toward my feelings made me bang my head lightly against the steering wheel.

  “You’ve gone too far from your path already, Son.”

  “I told you, I don’t intend to work for you, Dick.”

  “We’ll just have to see about that.”

  I didn’t like the promise looming beneath his tone. My father was a powerful man. I knew that. Most people feared him. I’d found that when you lost respect for someone, fear disappeared with it.

  “I have to let you go. I have an interview.”

  I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the seat next to me before putting the car in gear.

  My father ran an insurance empire. Yes, he’d inherited it from his parents, who had inherited from their parents. He had been born to money and a powerful name and had the entitlement that came with them. BTGI Alliance grew from the roots and funds of the union of two powerful families who’d merged their business minds back in the late eighteen hundreds. At the turn of the century, only the owners of the B and T initials had stayed in the game and had turned their focus to casualty and property insurance. When my father—the T in the business—had become sole proprietor almost twenty years ago, he extended to Europe and Asia and grew the customer base to well over one hundred million customers.

  My financial situation when I was born was the same as his, maybe even better, and I had been expected to follow the same road he had. Too bad I hated him so much I just wanted to be rid of him. He had a business mind, but not much else mattered to him. I’d grown up without a mother, and I had no one else to blame but Richard Thomas.

  There was a rhythm to our lives—his women abused the petty cash fund, the house staff, and sometimes me. He would be oblivious to anything they did right
up until the moment they left him, which would result in him sinking deeper into booze. I would get upset, rebel against his rules, and embarrass him at parties. He would punish me, leave for a few days, and then bring home a new woman. Rinse and repeat.

  I had spent most of my teenage years making sure we saw each other as rarely as possible, once per week at the most. We successfully ignored each other most of the time. It was a couple of months before my eighteenth birthday when he’d alluded to my needing to start an internship at his company. I’d told him I wanted to be a journalist.

  He’d laughed in my face.

  During my first week at Stanford, he’d called and texted to no avail.

  You won’t last without me. A text he sent almost every other week.

  I wondered if I could prove him wrong. But only for a moment or two, before I started mentally role-playing for my interview.

  I drove for almost an hour, only to be told to sit and wait. At first, it didn’t seem so bad. The building that held the San Francisco Chronicle offices had undergone a lot of repairs and modernizations, but there were enough framed articles on the walls to hold my attention for the first hour. By the time I hit the second hour, I was contemplating whether talking again to the plump secretary, who hadn’t bothered to look at me the first two times I’d tried talking to her, was worth another effort. It wasn’t.

  Finally … finally, she looked up at me.

  “Mr. Rogers will see you now.”

  She lifted her hand in the general direction of the end of a hallway, and I went there. I was rather disappointed I couldn’t see the newsroom, get a feel for the people who worked hard to produce the paper. I craved to be surrounded by their creative noise like it was something magical that I could draw inspiration from in an instant. There was only the sound of my footsteps on the floor and that of my fingers rapping against the heavy wooden door.

  “Come in!”

  I swung the door open and had to work to school my expression. Rogers was so fat I couldn’t see his chair beneath him. With him silhouetted against the window behind his desk, he looked like a blob floating beneath a stack of papers. He motioned for me to sit and started reading what I assumed was my résumé.

  He watched me above his glasses.

  “Why do you want to work at the Chronicle?”

  “I’ve recently moved to California, and you’re the largest newspaper here. I want to learn from the best, and I’m not afraid to start at the bottom. I want to be part of the team that has won six Pulitzer Prizes for journalistic excellence. Your value for factual reporting is as high as mine.”