by Geneva Lee
“Minions?” he says with a laugh. “Is that what you call them?”
“Them? Don't you mean us?” I repeat, tilting my head to size him up. He definitely looks like he belongs in her world. He’s too pretty for the eyes of mere mortals and his clothes scream upper one percent.
“So I'm classified as a minion? For what do I owe the honor?”
I reach out and run a finger along the neckline of his thin t-shirt. “Gucci,” I guess. “And why not? Who doesn’t want to drop a couple Benjamins to look like he’s not trying? There’s no cheap alcohol lingering in your cologne or on your breath.”
“So my taste earns me the coveted title?”
“Minion isn’t a compliment,” I say flatly. He might want to be playful but I’m not in the mood. “Of course, I don’t think you go to Belle Mère and Las Palmas kids don’t shop Caesar’s.” I don’t bother to add that I don’t either. If the forum shops weren’t filled with miles of the most expensive retailers in the world, I’d probably still want to avoid the cheesy Americanization of the ancient world. Although it’s debatable if Caesar would be with me on that. No, it was a milestone for nouveau riche tourists, but merely a mall to most of my classmates where Spago is the foodcourt.
“Maybe I stole this. You did catch me where I wasn’t supposed to be, remember?” His tongue flicks across his full, lower lip. “What would you say then?”
“Did you?” I breathe. “Grand larceny isn’t really a turn-on.”
He winks before nodding toward the door. “Well, I’m not a student at Belle Mère or Las Palmas.”
Does the help here have sticky fingers? That seems doubtful, especially given the confidence that oozes from him. He was probably a boyfriend from out of town who slipped away from arm candy duty. It would definitely explain his entitled attitude. I watch as he slips out the door, heading back to the party or seeking more treasure to loot. It’s hard to decide which way I hope he’s heading—back to the Housers or to play Robin Hood.
Away from his presence, I remember where I am. Hanging out in Nathaniel West’s study is a surefire way to get an up-close and personal look at the West’s security. Still someone should appreciate this view. I linger for a few minutes and drink it in. My impression of the man my father hates so vehemently feels justified standing here. Does he look out over the valley below and see the rest of us bustling about like worker ants building his kingdom? No computer. No pictures. There doesn’t seem to be much else to do here but play god. That was the difference between a man like West and my dad. One bled and the other doesn’t.
Pivoting on my heels, I stride out of the office. But before I can act on my instinct to get out of here, with or without Josie, a shadowy figure on the stairs catches my eye. I freeze in place, realizing with dread that it’s no longer moving either.
Busted.
Chapter Five
This isn’t one of those moments when your life flashes before your eyes. Nope, a vision of the next twenty-four hours in a jail cell, waiting for my dad to wake up from a bender, does instead. With any luck Monroe or Hugo will get a couple of great shots of the security hauling me off. By morning, news of my poor judgment will have spread like a pandemic through most of Belle Mère. Oh well. My Instagram feed could use the boost. But when I get the courage to peel my eyes off the floor, I discover the shadow is attached to my new best friend.
“Are you following me?” he asks.
“N-n-no,” I stumble over my denial. What is it about this guy that has me tongue-tied? Whatever it is I can’t say that I like 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 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 at the bubbles, wondering if I find myself in hot water soon as well.
Jameson returns to the kitchen and I resolve not to look at him. The smell of melted Gouda is drool worthy enough. He passes behind me, opening a drawer, but then his hands are on my hips. My eyes closed for a split second, relishing the confident gesture. In that moment I imagine this is my life: cooking without a care in the world for my hot boyfriend. It’s so simple that it almost seems attainable.
But it isn’t. I gulp against the treacherous ache in my throat. It’s a fantasy, that’s all. Dreams like that are the lies sold to little kids, and I haven’t purchased any for a long time.
He peers over my shoulder, tucking his chant against my neck. It fits there. Maybe a bit too well. “What are you making, Duchess?”
“Grown up mac & cheese,” I whisper, not trusting my voice to hide my emotions.
“I might have to see your ID before you can have that.” He sweeps his lips swiftly over my throat before he steps away.
I’m in trouble with a capital T. Or maybe I’m just finally having a good dream for once.
“Nice try. But I know what you’re really after. Isn’t it more fun if you don’t know who I am?” I tap the whisk against the rim of the saucier before I take it off the heat. Then I point to the pot of pasta. “Drain that.”
“As you wish.”
“I love that movie,” I say absently.
Jameson pauses at my side, potholders in hand. “It’s one of my favorites.”
His arm brushes mine as he reaches for the pot. My insides twist as I watch him dump the water. Neither of us speak as he returns the pot to the stove. I add the sauce, not daring to break the silence. We’ve fallen under a magic spell. Reality will fuck it up soon enough.
An hour later I’m strewn across a chaise in the pool cabana as Jameson finishes the last of the pasta. I eye him with interest from my carb-induced coma. “Does anyone feed you?”
“Not stuff like this,” he says, scooping another bite into his mouth before he pushes the bowl away. “If I could I would hire you as my chef.”
That might be dangerous for the chiseled physique I’m lusting after from afar. I keep this to myself. “Let me guess? Mom takes you to the buffets?”
“Mom is more interested in spa fare.” He screws up his face. “As far as I can tell, that means no fat, no salt, and no flavor.”
“There are more than a few decent restaurants around here,” I point out, glancing toward the sparkling lights that glimmer in the night from all angles.
“That is true. I’ll add that to my list of reasons why it’s good to be back in Vegas.”
“Back?” I perk up a little. Mr. Mysterious has slipped and given me a tidbit of information.
He sighs, tilting his head thoughtfully, as if considering how much he’s given away. Finally, he nods. “From school.”
“Oh, were you exiled? Stole daddy’s t-bird? Knocked up the principal’s daughter?” I rattle off options in mock horror.
“Do I get bad boy points if I say yes?”
I shake my head. “I’ve sworn off bad boys for lent.”
“It’s May.”
“What can I say? I’m not Catholic. But the thing about bad boys is true.” I’d dabbled in rebels with Hugo. That was enough to make me swear off guys like him for life.
“I’m back from college,” he admits.
More information. I push myself up in my seat. Things are starting to get interesting. “Where do you go?”
He hesitates, running his fingers through his hair. “Nowhere, actually. Not anymore. Tomorrow I get to tell my parents.”
Way to go, Emma. How would someone who hadn’t embraced the life of cynicism respond to that confession?
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I ask slowly.
“Not really.” His laugh is hollow. I recognize the bitter edge in it. Apparently Jameson and I are going to keep finding things we have in common.
“I have a knack for disappointing my parents, too,” I promise him. “If my dad knew I was here…”
“Why are you here?” he asks bluntly. Maybe the time for games is over.
“My friend dragged me and then promptly left me to fend off Monroe’s fury. I’m not supposed to be here.” It feels good to admit it.
“Me either,” he murmurs. “So neither of us want to be here and neither of us should be here. Tell me, Duchess. Who do you want to be tonight?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought I was the Duchess.”
“If you like,” he promises, “but tonight you can be anyone and anything. What will it be?”
“Carefree,” I say without hesitation. “I want to be carefree.”
Jameson falls silent as if considering my answer. Studying me for a moment, he finally stands and holds out his hand.
“Another game?” he suggests.
“Twenty questions went so well for us,” I say dryly.
“Truth or dare.”
Narrowing my eyes, I take his hand and allow him to pull me up. “Truth.”
“Why do you hate Monroe?” he asks.
“She stole my boyfriend. Truth or dare?” I don’t linger on my answer. There’s no way I’ll get to carefree if I let thoughts of Jonas sneak into my subconscious.
“Truth.”
“Why did you leave school?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t call it a voluntary exit,” he admits. “I was kicked out. This game sucks.”
“Let’s liven it up,” I suggest. “Dare.”
Jameson doesn’t miss a beat. “Go swimming with me.”
“I don’t have a suit.” My objection dies on my lips as he tugs his shirt over his head, revealing the hard slab of abs the thin fabric hinted at.
“Carefree, remember? Your turn.”
I pause, realizing this might be a good time to gracelessly exit.
“C’mon Duchess. I showed you mine.”