Page 37 of Gilt

“You don’t know who to trust,” I finish for him.

“You’re perceptive,” he notes.

If I’m going to earn a spot on his trust list and he’s going to earn one on mine, now’s the time to start being honest. “No. I read the interview with your college roommate today. He sold you out.”

“The worst part is, a story like that might have got him some vacation money. I had Thanksgiving at his house last year, and he sold me out for a Mai Tai.”

“Probably, an ocean view, too,” I tag on. “Personally, I demanded they pay me in diamonds and sign over the Taj Mahal. I guess I have higher standards than him.”

“I’m sorry I accused you.”

“Look ...” I struggle with exactly how to put this, “The night we met, it was fun to play games. We both wanted to pretend to be someone else, but you’re using my name to keep yourself out of jail. If whatever this is is going to work, you’re going to have to start being honest with me.”

“Does that work both ways, Duchess?”

I melt a little at the nickname. We’re surviving our first unofficial fight, pet names intact.

“I have nothing to hide,” I promise him.

He stops the BMW a few houses down, then he turns his flickering blue eyes on me. He reaches out, his thumb brushing over my lower lip as if considering this—considering me. “We all have something to hide, Duchess.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hey Princess, I have a business meeting at the bank. See you later.

I pluck the post-it note off the fridge and shake my head. I hope he’s talking about a meeting with an actual employee and not just an ATM on his way to the race track. Crumpling it, I check the clock on the microwave and curse. No time to make coffee this morning. Instead, I grab a granola bar from the cupboard and dart out the door, stopping in my tracks when I spot Jameson’s BMW in the driveway.

The low rumble of bass rattles his window as I knock on it. He turns down the music and rolls it down.

“Is this loitering or trespassing?” I ask.

“I call it chivalry,” he corrects me. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the shop.”

I hesitate for a minute, then I shoulder my purse and turn toward the bus station.

Jameson calls out again. “You’re not going to walk all the way there.”

Somehow I don’t think he’d let me. Glancing down the street to make sure my dad is nowhere in sight, I get into Jameson’s car. All I’d need was for Dad to finish up his meeting early. But when we make it to the next block with no sign of him in sight, I finally relax in the leather seat.

“I wasn’t going to walk,” I tell him. I tap on the glass to point out a sign as we pass. “The bus drops me off down the street from the store.”

His eyebrows knit together as if he’s considering this. His hand drifts over, and for one moment, I think he’s about to take mine, but then he changes gears. “I know a pawn shop isn’t a Fortune 500 company,” Jameson says slowly, “but I’d think your father would be able to afford a car.”

“He has one.” I shrug, letting his judgment roll off my shoulders. It’s a skill I’ve developed over the years.

“For you,” he states the obvious.

“I don’t want one.” There, that’s not a lie. I don’t want a car. For a crazy second, I consider if my mother has arranged for Jameson to sway me into accepting my early graduation gift.

“You really shouldn’t be taking the bus alone.”

“Why? Because working yourself up over it screams first-world problems.”

He bypasses the question as he drifts effortlessly across lanes. “Do you take it at night when you don’t have a ride?”

“Sometimes. Other times, Josie picks me up, or Jerry takes me home.”

“Jerry?” Jameson repeats stiffly.