Page 182 of Gilt

I shudder thinking about it. “She’s not going to stop until we’re the Kardashians.”

“I will never let you be a Kardashian,” Jameson promises, earning him a genuine smile.

“That’s true love.”

“Speaking of love.” Jameson swoops down, lifting me off my chair and waiting for my orders.

“Take me to bed,” I command.

We linger between the sheets, soaking up our final solitary afternoon before life interrupts our private healing process. This is how we communicate best. Each touch provides a reassurance that we can find nowhere else. We speak to one another in sighs and murmurs with trembling mouths and hungry hands.

When we finally collapse into a heap together, words are still there to fill the space between lovemaking.

“What happens when it’s all gone?” I ask in a soft voice.

“What’s gone?” he murmurs, nuzzling against my ear.

“The hotels and properties and businesses. What will there be then?”

“You and me,” he says simply.

It’s not the answer I expect. “That’s not much.”

“No, it’s everything.”

The next morning inevitability comes to call. I reluctantly agree to let Jameson drive me to the first day but balk when he offers to pack me lunch. When we arrive in the parking lot, a few people give us the thumbs up, and my throat swells.

“They think I’m a fucking saint.” I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. I’d finally given in and purchased several oversized pairs.

“Then give them hell, Duchess.”

I don’t need any encouragement on that end. The board of directors had, in their infinite wisdom, declared that school would start late this year. Extending summer vacation would give students time to mourn and reflect on the tragic events.

You can’t make this stuff up.

For most of my peers, it just meant impromptu, last-minute vacations.

A car zooms into the spot beside us and honks. Monroe traded in her gold convertible for a Porsche in a shade she deemed “hooker red.” I have to hand it to the girl. She has no problem branding herself.

She waits for me to get out, and I sigh. Glancing out the back window, I ask Jameson one more time. “Are you certain Maddox is necessary?”

“Ask me if you want him around when Monroe’s film crews show up,” he says dryly.

He has a point.

“It’s not too late to run.”

Jameson’s offer is tempting, but I shake my head. “I’m not supposed to run, remember?”

“From me. Running from high school is both understandable and acceptable.”

He kisses me long and hard so that my lips are swollen when we break apart. It’s a reminder that I’ll carry with me throughout the day.

“Finally!” Monroe exclaims, slamming her car door shut. “It’s a little creepy that he drops you off.”

“You’re a call girl,” I remind her.

“Touché.” She shoulders her bag and prattles on about non-compete clauses and waivers. If nothing else, she’s taken it as her responsibility to bore me the details of her new show. I interpret it as a sign that she cares.