Page 115 of Gilt

“You have every resource at my disposal,” he corrects me.

“They’re going to make you go in there and talk about our sex life.” Or lack thereof, I add silently.

He pauses, and I see the wheels turning behind his blue eyes. “There’s a way around that.”

“How?” I plead. I need to know how he can fix this. I want to believe he can because, for the first time since this started, I’m truly scared.

“You’ll be eighteen soon.” He doesn’t have to remind me, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. “Emma, they can’t force you to testify against your spouse.”

I jerk away as if he’d suddenly announced he has a contagious disease. “What?”

“Spousal privilege. If it comes to it, we can get married.” His words are detached. He’s suggesting a preemptive strike.

Call me old-fashioned. I’m not walking down the aisle as a strategic move. “We are not getting married.” Disbelief mixes with fear. “We haven’t even had sex yet. How are we having this conversation? I still have a year of high school, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to spend it labeled as the gold-digger murderess.”

“You’re neither of those things,” he reprimands me.

“Tell that to the rest of my graduating class,” I grumble.

“Who cares what they think?”

Apparently, I do. I’m too shocked over this moment of self-discovery to share it.

“Look, I’m not going to make you marry me,” Jameson begins.

“Good because I’m not.”

“I have to admit that I’m offended that you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that...” I search for the right words to explain the crazy jumble of thoughts in my head. How on earth did things get this screwed up? I spent the better part of the last week begging him to take me to bed. Now he’s offering to put a ring on it. Everything about this scenario is backward. “You don’t have to do something this extreme.”

In the end, I opt to spare his feelings.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.” I don’t bother to hide my incredulity. “Marriage is a very big deal. At least it is to me.”

“You have to remember I was raised by a billionaire. Jesus, I can afford to have a few wives.”

“A few wives, huh?” My eyes narrow at the thought of someone else catching Jameson’s attention.

“You look jealous, Duchess.” I can hear how pleased he sounds.

“Don’t worry about me. Continue to visualize your trophy wife collection. Might I suggest mahogany for the cabinet you keep them in?”

“You are jealous.” He grabs the sash of my robe and tugs me closer. “I like jealous on you.”

“I don’t.” How he’s managed to distract me from the drama at hand is beyond me.

Jameson goes into the ensuite bathroom and begins to run water in the bathtub.

“I’m only going to be downstairs,” he says as I slip off my clothes and grab a towel, waiting for the tub to finish filling up.

When he reaches the bathroom door, I call after him, “By the way, that was the worst marriage proposal of all time.”

He pokes his head back in the door. “I’ll do better next time.”

What have I gotten myself into?