Page 41 of Gilt

“Already taken care of, Duchess.” He hitches his finger towards the back seat, where a wicker basket sits.

“Is that a picnic basket?” I stare at it like it might disappear or transform into an everyday object. Because real life does not include hot guys and picnic baskets.

“I assumed I’d need to feed you,” he explains. He assumed correctly. Somehow Jameson has managed to steadily outnumber his mood swings with surprisingly sweet gestures.

“I didn’t know picnic baskets were a real thing.” I hope he didn’t catch the slight break in my voice. Even Yogi Bear didn’t cry over picnics. It’s been a long time since a guy surprised me with something as sweet as this. Actually, a guy never has.

“They are,” he informs me. “It’s just one of the many perks of living in a casino. I have a staff that can find picnic baskets.”

“And make the picnics.”

Jameson clutches his chest, shaking his head. “I’m wounded, Duchess. I made everything in that picnic basket.”

“So you made me lunch, and now you’re taking me where?” I search the scenery outside my window for a clue.

“That’s a secret,” he says.

“Secrets don’t make friends,” I grumble. “A picnic lunch and a surprise location? If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a date, but since I haven’t agreed to a date, I can’t possibly be right.”

He blows off my none-too-subtle accusation with a whistle. “This is just two friends having lunch. Don’t read into things, Emma.”

I check out his outfit for clues, but that hardly tells me anything. He’s in his standard T-shirt and jeans. If Calvin Klein were a god, Jameson would be his muse. The shirt seems to caress his body, and his jeans hang low on his hips as though his clothes were making love to him. It’s enough to give a girl wicked thoughts. I squirm a little in my seat, trying to squash my hunger. I doubt whatever he’s packed in that basket will actually satisfy me down there.

Jameson weaves in and out of traffic until the busy streets of Vegas are behind us, and we’re on the open road. The desert slowly evolves into the peaks of mountains. I have no idea how far away from home he’s taking me, and I don’t care. As we climb higher, I start to spot scraggly pines and patches of snow. Coming from the desert to this feels like a fairy tale.

“Is this Mount Charleston?” I ask him, gawking at the vacation homes tucked into the mountainside.

He nods, his eyes glued to the winding road. “Have you ever been up here?”

“No. We’ve never made it.” Despite the city’s reputation, there actually are plenty of things to do outdoors. My family had just never done any of it. I’d like to say we’re indoor types, but really mountains are just outside our comfort zone. Fresh air instead of lingering cigarette smoke. Scenery carved by nature. Not our scene. Despite the fact that the mountains have always been there, hanging in the distance like an old film backdrop, they’d never felt real to me until now.

“What do you think?” Jameson asks, calling me from my thoughts and back to the reality of him.

I search for the right words to describe how it makes me feel. “They’re magnificent.”

“These aren’t even great mountains,” he confesses to me. “Someday, I’ll take you to the Appalachians or up to Colorado. We have a house in Aspen.”

I press my lips into a thin smile. His family has vacation homes, while my family’s idea of a vacation has been jumping from one desert location to another for as long back as I can remember. “My vacations rely on the terms of a custody agreement.”

“My family’s vacations usually center around business. I don’t know how you’re supposed to break the cycle.”

“Kill all the lawyers,” I suggest.

“Right now, I’m a pretty big fan of lawyers.” The conversation screeches to an awkward halt at the reminder of his legal troubles. It’s as if there’s a monster lurking in the room with us. Occasionally we forget it’s there, then one of us slips up and reminds the other, and we’re stuck watching our backs.

We lapse into silence until he turns down a rocky lane.

“Wow,” I gasp. Tall trees flank either side of the drive as he zooms along to an unknown destination. The road deposits us in front of a breathtaking chalet, perched cliff side. I get out before he has a chance to come around and perform his gentlemanly duties.

The air is cold in my throat, and its crispness makes my lungs hurt, but I drink it in greedily. There’s no pollution or fumes tainting it. It tastes like pine needles and sunshine. I walk closer to the edge. Jameson gathers the picnic basket as I gawk at the amazing views. Vegas is a speck in the distance, and for once, instead of neon signs and blinking lights, trees and rocks rise around me. When I finally turn away from it, I find Jameson standing a few yards away, watching me.

“Is this your house?” I ask.

“Yes.” His response is colored with sadness I don’t understand, and before I can reconsider, I cross to him and press my lips to his.

“What was that for?” he asks as we break apart.

“For sharing this with me,” I tell him, “and because I don’t want you to be sad here. Promise me.”