Page 39 of Gilt

“It’s a gift from a friend,” he says, dismissing my offer. He refuses even to take the tip I hold out to him. “That’s not necessary. He’s a very good friend.”

If only he knew the half of it.

I don’t bother to hide my enthusiasm as I unwrap the popsicle and clutch the wooden stick. Holding up my camera, I take a selfie licking it then I send it to Jameson.

Jameson: You’re giving me ideas, Duchess.

Emma: That was unintentionally pornographic.

Jameson: Unintentional porn is my favorite kind.

My cheeks heat as I consider what he’s thinking as he stares at my photo. I know what would be on my mind if he sent me a picture of his tongue, and it wouldn’t be ice cream.

Time to change the subject.

Emma: Thank you for the Bomb Pop but what about you? Did you get one for yourself?

Jameson: No. I’m saving my first Bomb Pop to share with someone special.

Emma: Ice cream doesn’t wait. It melts.

Jameson: Then maybe you need to reconsider going on that date with me.

I respond with another tawdry selfie with my lips wrapped around the tip of the popsicle. I’d said no more games, but I might as well leave him guessing.

MY private chauffeur service continues throughout the week. More than once, I have to rush out the door before Dad sees that I’m getting a ride from someone other than Josie. The ten minutes to the shop and the ten minutes home have been the only alone time we’ve gotten this week since Dad decided to start making appearances at the store. At least it means I won’t have to work on the weekend.

This morning, there’s a cappuccino waiting in the cup holder for me. As soon as I pick it up, I know it’s dry with extra foam. Someone’s been paying attention. I take a few cautious sips, but he’s silent next to me. I almost always wait for him to speak because he’s nicer in the mornings than I am, but today he’s quiet.

“How was your night?” I ask.

“Uneventful.” He doesn’t elaborate further, but he dares to glance over at me. Dark circles under his eyes mar his otherwise perfect face.

My fingers twitch, and I realize I want to reach out and rub his back. I want to reassure him that everything’s going to be fine, but that’s not a promise I can make him. “Is your mom back yet?”

“No.” Apparently, he’s answering in one-word sentences today.

“How’s Monroe?” This question earns me a genuine reaction.

His gaze flickers to me in surprise, a bemused grin taking resonance on his lips, “Do you really want to know how Monroe is?”

“No,” I admit, setting my cup back down in the holder, “but I don’t want to ride in silence the whole time either.”

“She’s begging me to talk to a psychiatrist, probably so she can buy my files and see if I did it. As if I’d walk into some quack and confess all of my sins.”

Is there anything to confess? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. The more time I spend with Jameson, the more convinced I am of his innocence, but that’s when he’s in a good mood. When he’s happy, it’s as if the sun is shining directly on me—until a dark cloud descends. I can’t always see it coming. More often than not, it has nothing to do with me. He arrives in these moods. Sometimes he loosens up. Other times he barely cracks a smile. Each time I seem to pinpoint exactly how I feel about him, his mood changes, shifting as abruptly as an unforeseen storm.

“You know, there’s one thing you can do to cheer me up.”

I tilt my head in interest, “And that is?”

“Agree to go on a real date with me.” He’s not giving up on that. I should have known that’s what he was getting at, but he finds a new way to ask every day.

“I need time,” I tell him. The air between us thickens, pulsating with negative energy. Forecast: hurricane. Category: Jameson.

“Take all the time you need.” There’s far more annoyance than reassurance in his statement. His knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

I groan as I reach for the door handle and swing it open.