Page 12 of Gilt

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 a 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 water's 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 close for a split second, relishing the confident gesture. At 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 chin 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 speaks 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.”