Page 112 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

“Okay, that’s twice, so now you’re going to have to owe me.”

“Worth it,” she said under her breath.

Smartass.

Cross snatched the large textbook from Catherine’s hand, and threw the piece of shit across the room before she could even protest. It was so heavy that he felt the impact of the book hitting the floor from ten feet away on the bed.

Catherine stared at him. “I have a thing due next week, you know. I’m supposed to be reading so I know what to … I don’t even know.”

“Oh? What kind of thing?”

“Not really sure at the moment.”

“You’re not a very good law student, either.”

Catherine shrugged. “I kind of hate it.”

Cross nodded. “Yeah, I figured.”

She reached over and pushed back the longer strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes. Then, her palm rested warm and soft against his cheek.

“I don’t even know what I want to do,” she admitted quietly.

“You’ve got time to find out.”

“Do I really, though? I’m twenty-five. I’ve been in college since I was eighteen. I basically hate it and everything about it. So what, do I live off my trust fund for the rest of my life because I can’t find direction?”

“You have time,” Cross repeated, “and because you’re luckier than some, you have the funds to support yourself until you do figure it out, Catherine. You shouldn’t feel guilty because you have money. What are you going to do with it, let it rot?”

“Well—”

“You can’t actually take money with you when you die, okay. Sure, you can line your grave in gold, and rest in the most expensive silk, surrounded by Italian marble, but what good does that do?”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “No, I know that.”

“Then what exactly do you plan to do with it all?”

“I do spend money.”

“Really, where?” he asked. “Because you live in a decent neighborhood in a pretty basic apartment, although it’s better than most, and I guess you do have a new car. I’m not sure where else you’re actually living, babe.”

Catherine’s gaze narrowed at him a second before she pushed off the bed. Cross propped himself up on his elbows, and watched her as she disappeared into a closet. Without warning, stuff started coming from the closet and landing on the foot of the bed.

Cross’s gaze skipped over the items—designer bags, clothes, shoes, and more. Gucci. Dolce & Gabbana. Prada. Louboutin. Marc Jacobs. Valentino.

Catherine came out of the closet with a whole armful of red soled heels. Sparkly. Black. White. Leather. Pointed toe. Open toe. She dumped the Louboutin heels onto the floor, and then turned around and went right back into the closet.

“Catherine, what are you doing?”

Instead of answering, she came back out with a large wooden, shiny box that was at least a foot and a half wide by a foot and a half deep. Guessing by the doors on the sides and the small drawers, he thought it was a jewelry box. Wordlessly, she turned the box over and let the contents fall out onto the bed where she had been resting beside him earlier.

Diamonds. Pearls. Precious stones.

Necklaces. Bracelets. Earrings.

So much jewelry that it made a small mountain.

“I can go get my sunglasses collection,” Catherine added, “but I’m quite fond of them, and I would rather not scratch the lenses.”