Gilt_ By Invitation Only - Geneva Lee Page 0,13
it. I plant a hand on my hip in challenge. “Are you following me?”
This earns me a smile. The kind that drops defenses and charms parents. I thought I’d built an immunity to guys like him, but here I am coming down with a bad case of wet panties.
He extends his hand and looks at me expectantly. I shake my head. My judgment isn’t completely shot.
“I don’t bite.”
That’s disappointing.
“You suck at introductions. I don’t even know your name,” I point out.
“Is that all that’s stopping you?”
That and a few shreds of common sense that he hasn’t obliterated yet. What if he tells me his name? Will I take his hand? What if he doesn’t? I’m just as likely to follow him, which means I’m in big trouble. Damn Josie for disappearing on me. Usually I’m the one bailing her out of jams. Tonight I wish she’d return the favor. When I find her, I’m revoking her BFF card.
“It must be something terrible,” I tease. “Maybe Howard? Or Bert?”
“Bert?” he repeats with a deep laugh. “Two can play this game you now.”
I barely process that we’ve begun walking deeper into the penthouse. Score one for my self preservation skills.
“Ingrid?” he guesses. “Helga?”
“What am I? An old German woman?”
He pauses unexpectedly and I run directly into him. His hands grip my upper arms, steadying me before I can stumble. His touch does strange things to my body – stuff usually reserved for romance novels.
“Definitely not.” His answers scrapes up his throat. Maybe I’m not the only one affected by skin to skin contact. “Jameson. My family calls me Jamie..”
Jamie. That feels far too normal a name for him. Familiar. Comfortable. It doesn’t fit how he makes me feel. But Jameson does.
“Your turn,” he prompts.
“Oh, is that how this works, Jameson? I thought we were playing coy.” At least I can pretend like I have some dignity left.
“We can keep playing, Duchess, but I’m beginning to feel like my opponent deserves formal recognition.” The arrogance that's marked his tone since we met softens a bit as he speaks.
“I like the name you’ve given me. You’re right. It’s fitting.”
His mouth twists into a smirk that’s at odds with his strong jaw line, making him look devilish. Why are the wicked boys so much more beddable?
“Duchess it is.”
I’ve won this round and we both know it. It’s an unforeseen victory, but I’ll take it anyway. I take the opportunity to be the one that leads. A few steps deeper into the penthouse and we find ourselves in a kitchen. Being here has me out of sorts. Scattered mail and magazines clutter the black granite countertops. Judging from the oversized Viking range and large steam hood this is a gourmet kitchen, but the only evidence of food consumption is the dry bits of toast on the plates piled in the sink and empty yogurt cup.
“I guess the maid has the day off,” I note, instinctively picking up the trash and looking for the wastebasket.
“Are you applying for the job?” Jameson asks, nodding toward the offending yogurt cup.
“Maybe for chef.” I stare longingly at the stove. I can only imagine the ingredients in the subzero fridge. I bet it’s not full of chicken breasts and a half dozen cheap marinades—unlike my house. These people can have whatever they want and they settle for toast and yogurt. Swallowing hard I turn away from the gourmet appliances and spot a neatly disguised recycling bin. It’s fitting really: trim out your trash with whitewashed paneling so no one knows that you have any. Who would want the ugliness of the used and discarded blemishing their perfect reality? Not the Wests.
“Chef?” He sounds impressed. It’s completely gross that his approval sends a tingle running from my scalp to my toes. I ignore how that ripple hesitates a little too long between my legs.
I shrug, doing my best to look nonchalant. I’m pretty certain that’s what Cosmo recommends in these situations, pretend like you’re too chill to notice the guy is flirting with you. Except I don’t know if Jameson is flirting with me. My boy skills need a tuneup. “I like to cook. It’s sad the wicked bitch of the West wastes her caloric intake on nonfat Greek yogurt.”
“It’s a good source of protein,” Jameson advises me as he grabs a stool and makes himself at home in the West’s kitchen. “Wicked bitch of the West?”
I cringe inwardly. For all I know Jameson is Monroe’s childhood buddy. Or more likely, judging