Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,104

into a knot.

Not the mail man.

Barrett.

EIGHTEEN

GWENNA

December 30, 2011

The Madisons always fly us out to Colorado first class—going back to when Jamie and I were geeky freshmen lugging dorm room pillows and dangling gemstone-colored earbuds from our iPods.

Jamie’s dad is Larry Madison, the infamous economist, Machiavelli enthusiast, Republican talking head, and real estate magnate. It’s true he loves a good debate, and I can’t vouch for him in business dealings, but when it comes to family, the man is a big fluff ball.

Even though I just starred in a movie, and in October signed a really decent record deal, the Madisons would never dream of letting me pay for my own plane ticket. I imagine even if—no, when—I hit it supernova big, Larry and Jamie’s mother, Fiona, will always book our New Year’s flights.

Unless Elvie and I are married. Maybe then they’d let me pay for my own.

Jamie covers her ears. “Stop!”

I blink, and realize I’m slurping up the last drops of my screwdriver. I grin and give my red straw one final slurp. A gray-haired man across the aisle, wearing a pair of square-ish reading glasses and hunching over The Wall Street Journal, looks up at me. I wink, and he smirks.

Charm has always been a big gun in my repertoire of talents, but since about this time last year, when all the End of Day billboards went up, I’ve noticed almost everyone returns my smiles. Even more so since the movie premiered July 2 to really strong reviews.

I lean my seat back, shut my eyes, and start to run the song I’m composing through my head. Naturally, this is the moment Jamie picks to tap my arm. I glare up at her. Jamie’s gaze darts to the stewardess standing in front of the first class section.

“Argh.” I sit my seat up just as the woman starts her yada yada yada, preparing to land speech.

I’m eager to land, mostly so I can turn my phone on. Elvie should be setting up at the Bluebird about now, and I want to be sure I’m the only woman on his mind. I’m sure that hussy Heather is working tonight. She always works the nights he plays. I know he’d never leave me for an apple-shaped, 4’10 brunette with yellow teeth and body odor, but even I’ll admit the girl has a nice voice, and she knows just how to stroke Elvie’s XL ego.

As the wheels come down and the plane begins to tilt, offering a stunning, white-capped mountain view, I try to tell myself that I’m good at that, too.

With the famous duo The Wessons as parents, there was never any chance Elvie wouldn’t be both a born showman and also completely full of himself.

I sometimes jokingly call him my sea lion, because I really think he could perform all day and night for the next sixty years and die happy. And unmarried. And childless. Probably with gonorrhea from the groupies.

Jamie bats at my hands. “Put that phone up, girl. You don’t need to be his babysitter.”

I give her a long blink. “I was looking at the weather, bitch.”

She snaps her fingers in my face. “That’s easy. Snow.”

“And snow.”

“And more and more snow.” She rubs her skinny hands together. “I can’t wait to ski!”

Five hours later, we’re doing just that. I’ve got a hunter green snowsuit Elvie gave me for Christmas, “for when the paparazzi stalk you,” and by all accounts, it seems to be doing its job. It’s too dark on the artificially-lit slopes for anyone to recognize my face, but I’ve gotten three offers to head down to the bars, and two unsolicited phone numbers. This all in the last hour.

The night ski crowd is young and horny.

Jamie and I ski down behind a group of high schoolers, and afterward she says, “I’m going to the women’s room.”

“Okay. Meet you back down here in 10 or 15.”

“You should give me your phone.”

I stick my tongue out at her, then ski over to the lifts. I wait a few minutes for an unoccupied pod, and when the crowd around me only grows, I get into one of the little pods with two guys.

I try to ignore them, looking down at my phone. Somewhere along the ascent, I get two bars of service. I want to see if Elvie’s texted me a compliment on the ski suit ass shot I sent earlier.

Just as I confirm there’s no text waiting in my inbox, I feel a pair of eyes on me. A second