Page 70 of Gilt

“Emma doesn’t like to travel,” my mother says offhandedly.

“I haven’t really gotten the opportunity.” Mom’s revisionist history of my travel preferences kills my appetite entirely. I push my plate away. Ilsa appears and whisks it off to the kitchen. I’m like that plate of salad. Suitably filling until Mom grows tired of me. Then it’s back to the kitchen for me. She loves to travel, but I haven’t been invited on those trips. Over the years, she’d made a few noncommittal statements about taking me here or there, but she’s never followed through on any of them. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. But how do you explain to someone that your mother has access to a private jet and you’ve only seen two states?

“We should go to New York,” Jameson suggests, and for a moment it’s just the two of us. We gaze at each other across the table as I imagine us frolicking through Central Park. The whole scene is very reminiscent of the opening credits of Friends. But the longer he and I stare at each other, the more those scenes start to shift to ones that remind me of Sex and The City.

Mom clears her throat and the spell is broken. “Emma is seventeen.”

“Thanks for the fact check, Mom,” I mutter.

“I don’t allow my seventeen-year-old to go halfway across the country without my permission,” she continues.

“It’s a good thing I’ll be eighteen in two weeks then,” I jump in.

“Two weeks?” Jameson asks in surprise. “Maybe it will be a birthday trip.”

She glowers at him. I want to warn her that her face will freeze like that, but considering the amount of Botox comprising her body, it probably already has.

“I would’ve thought your people would be a little more thorough.”

“Come again?” he asks.

“Someone with your level of wealth has certainly run a background check on my daughter.” She folds her manicured hands on the table in challenge.

“Obviously,” he admits, “but I didn’t memorize it.”

“Not something as important as your girlfriend’s birthday?”

I don’t miss how she makes girlfriend sound like a lot nastier of a word. “Gee, mom. Do you mean slut? Or maybe whore?”

I push my chair from the table, but before I can continue my dramatic exit solo, Jameson stands. “Not everything in this world has to be subject to contracts and legalese and security procedures. I want my relationship with Emma to be real.”

“Do you even know what that word means?” she asks him. But despite the coldness of her tone, she shrinks against her seat. Meanwhile, Hans watches the entire scene unfolding with interest. I half expect him to yell cut or offer director’s notes.

“I’m not hungry,” I announce loudly. “Let’s go for a drive.”

Jameson sucks in a deep breath and squares his shoulders before he gestures towards the door. “After you.”

Apologies crowd my lips as we make our way through the hall, but none of them feel adequate.

“Don’t even think about apologizing, Duchess,” he says as if he can read my mind.

“But they’re my parents.”

“Only one of them is,” he corrects me, “but I can see why you wouldn’t want to claim either.”

His keys are out of his pocket before we hit the front door, but mom chases after us. “A word, Emma.”

It’s more than she deserves, but I pause. “Go ahead. I’ll be out in a second.”

He looks torn as if he’s leaving me to fend off a rabid dog on my own while he saves himself. Nothing could be closer to the truth.

“I can handle myself,” I assure him. He doesn’t need further prodding.

Mom doesn’t beat around the bush about why she stopped me. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him.”

“Really? And I thought you were planning our wedding.” I cross my arms and begin counting down the minute I’ve given her in my head.

“You have no idea who he is.”