Gilt_ By Invitation Only - Geneva Lee Page 0,14
from the pythons of biceps peeking from his T-shirt, her bodyguard. “That’s what everyone calls Monroe West. I have no idea who came up with it. I can’t believe I said that.”
Two truths and a lie.
Wicked bitch of the West. I coined that particular term of endearment for Monroe in ninth grade not long after our introduction when she was released from captivity, or boarding school as the Housers call it.
“I take it you’re not a fan.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I hedge. “I mean I watched her on Pop Princess like the rest of school.” Monroe’s brief foray into reality television had been the talk of Belle Mère, and it had given me a reason to heckle my screen for a couple weeks. I keep that to myself.
“Then not a friend,” he clarifies. Those stormy eyes pierced through me. It’s not a question. It’s clear he knows the answer, but I can’t resist responding.
“We aren’t planning any slumber parties. You?”
I’m dying for him to tell me how he wound up here. Maybe that’s why I’ve been answering his questions. Of course, it could just be that he’s rattling me. If I’m not careful I’ll need to make a cold shower my next stop on this unofficial tour of the West estate.
“I wouldn’t call her a friend.” It’s not much information but judging from the chilly undercurrent in his words he’s not the president of her fan club.
Good enough for me.
“Cook something,” he says out of nowhere. I shake my head. It’s fairly hard to render me speechless but Jameson’s just accomplished it.
He snorts at my horrified reaction. “You said it yourself. Someone should appreciate this kitchen. Besides I’m sure one of the—what did you call them? Minions?—will wreck it before the night’s over.”
He slides off the stool and breaches the subzero fridge, revealing a drawer of artisan cheeses, tins of caviar, and shelves full of perfect organic produce. I have $50 in grocery money to hold me until the end of the month and they have half a Whole Foods in this kitchen.
“Inspired?” He steps aside, holding open the door for me.
“I shouldn’t.” But now I’m merely feigning a conscience. By this time most of the partygoers will be far too wasted to remember their own names let alone mine. If we get caught I can play drunk. I can’t resist the temptation as I pluck a wedge of Gouda from the drawer along with the glass pint of milk. No plastic gallons in this kitchen. Jameson leans against the counter, gripping the edge, as he watches me rummaging through the pantry and fridge for the rest of the ingredients I need. One I've collected the necessities, I fill a Le Creuset stockpot with the special water tap conveniently built into the backsplash over the eight burner gas range. I guess it would have been too much work to use the sink and carry all the way over. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m starving.” His voice is low and gravelly. My eyes flash to his in time to see his tongue flick over his perfectly white teeth.
The better to eat you with.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Do you cook?” I don’t bother to hide my incredulity at his offer. I can’t help but imagine that he subsists on the sandwiches his conquests deliver to him in bed.
“No,” he admits slowly and for a moment his cocky exterior slips allowing me a flash of sheepish Jameson. Dammit it makes him even hotter. “But I can set a mean table. Shall we dine poolside?”
He gestures to the private patio just outside a row of sliding glass doors.
“That would be lovely,” I practically sing out and he smiles. I can’t help my cheerful mood swing now that he’s found my soft spot. Not an easy feat. But I’ve always felt at home in a kitchen. My sister and I used to help our mom cook. She taught me all the basic French sauces. It came in handy when she ditched the three of us for personal chef of her own. I’d split duties with Becca after that. Then everything changed. It had been a long time since I found myself humming over roux.
A few minutes later and I have a slowly thickening cheese sauce and boiling water. Reaching for the bag of penne I found in the cupboard, I dump it in and stir. The pasta momentarily disturbs the waters heat and the surface calms before steam rises to shatter it again. I stare