Gilt_ By Invitation Only - Geneva Lee Page 0,34
but mine. It had been a good call. Over the last year, her photos began to vanish as her Facebook page was deleted and her Instagram stopped updating. Then they disappeared from our house, leaving only faded patches where they had hung for years. But it’s even harder to think about all the photos she won’t get to take.
Plopping down in front of the headstone, I give her a small grin. Her face beams back at me, locked in a happy moment from earlier that summer. It’s one of the last pictures I have of her. My memory fills in the rest of the picture. Becca posing in front of a tall cactus, her red hair billowing behind her. She’ll always look like this to me: young, happy. She’ll never age, while I’ve gotten older in the last twenty-four hours. I blink back tears. “Hey sis, have I got a story to tell you.”
With Becca I leave nothing out. I tell her about sneaking around Nathaniel’s office and meeting Jameson. I tell her that it seems impossible to have fallen in love with him a little bit in one night. I tell her that makes me feel stupid. Then I tell her it was all a lie. I ask her if I should go to Mom’s and I tell her about Dad and his drinking. I know it’s impossible but I can’t help but hope that she’ll speak up and offer me some insight. Although it would probably scare me to death.
I sit for a little while, soaking up how good it feels just to get it all off my chest, even though the only response is the wind in the willow branches. “I’ve never really thought much about what happens after we die, but I like the idea that you’re listening somewhere. There’s no way you landed the angel gig. It’ll take you centuries before you work off all the trouble you made here.”
As twilight falls in dusky hues over the cemetery, I stand up.
“I miss you, Becca,” I whisper. I should have brought her flowers but I think she’d be okay just knowing that I brought her love. If I hurry I’ll be home before dark, but as I turn I nearly jump out of my skin. Jameson’s leaning against a tree. He’s changed since I saw him last. He hasn’t shaved but his hair is combed into neat chaos. In the dusky light, it’s darker than I remember. His jeans hug his narrow hips but not as tightly as his shirt clings to his muscular torso. My thoughts flash to what he looks like out of his clothes and I blush. Striding up to him, I fold my arms over my chest and glare.
“How long have you been standing there?” I demand. Then a more important question occurs to me. “Did you follow me?”
“A little full of ourselves, Duchess.” He shifts ever so slightly and I find myself doing the same.
Dammit, he is not who you thought he was, I remind myself.
“Don’t call me that,” I warn him. Did he think we would just pick up where we left off? That ship sailed when I woke up alone.
“Then I guess I’ll call you Emma or would you prefer Ms. Southerly?” he asks, a chill runs so deeply in his words that I feel it in my own blood. Last night I thought he might devour me, tonight it feels like he’d settle for a mere mauling.
“I’d prefer you didn’t call me anything.” I move past him but his hand flies out and catches my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. I tug against his hold but he only tightens his grip. “Let go of me.”
“We need to talk first.”
“We needed to talk this morning,” I tell him. “But I’m a little tired after spending most of the day covering for your ass with the homicide division.”
“I appreciate that.” But there’s no gratitude in his face. He’s reciting the obligatory thanks.
“I think getting someone off a murder rap deserves flowers or maybe chocolate,” I bite back.
Jameson steps closer, still keeping my wrist pinned. “Did you think you got me off, Duchess?”
“You’re using that word again,” I warn him.
He ignores me. “Believe me, this is far from over.”
“It is for us,” I tell him.
His eyes flash, lightning in the stormy gray. I’ve upset him, which is a pretty stupid thing considering that he may or may not have killed someone in the last twenty-four hours. But as angry as