Page 71 of Gilt

“I have a better idea than you do. You didn’t even give him a chance.”

“I don’t have to,” she explodes. “I know his family. I know what they’re capable of.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt her, “but you’re the one who was ready to call his Mom a few weeks ago.”

“There’s a difference between being a West by marriage and being a West by birth,” she says.

“Could you be more self-righteous?” I ask her.

“Blood will out, Emma.” She speaks as if she’s giving me the code key to decipher her cryptic insights.

“If we’re done with the riddling portion of the evening, I need to go.” I don’t wait for her to respond before I turn on my heels and leave my mother—and her opinions—behind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Your mother and my father would have gotten along,” Jameson informs me as soon as I’m inside the Porsche.

“But who would be the other two Horsemen of the Apocalypse?” I slump into my seat, feeling more than a little sorry for myself.

“Seat belt,” he commands. Groaning, I tuck it over my shoulder. It’s not like me to forget, not after what happened to my sister, but if my mother can accomplish anything on a daily basis, it’s to suck my will to live.

“Where are we going?” I ask him.

“What’s the farthest point on the planet from here?”

“I don’t know. New Zealand?” Sadly, I don’t think this car floats. He revs the engine and peels out of the driveway. Considering how fast he’s going, it might just be able to make it across the water, but as we reach the main drag of downtown Palm Springs, road closure signs greet us. For a brief second, I wonder if my mom now controls the Department of Transportation, too. I wouldn’t put it past her to do something that dramatic to stop me from seeing Jameson. But just beyond the white and orange obstacles, a number of tents are set up in the street. People wander, many hand-in-hand with loved ones or children, and music floats through the air toward the car.

Swiveling in my seat, I touch the hand he’s using to grip the drive shaft. “Let’s do something normal.”

“You’re going to have to give me some ideas, Duchess. I’m fresh out of normal these days, considering most of our dates end in murder, interrogations, or arrest.”

I understand exactly where he’s coming from. I tip my head toward the street carnival.

“Really?” he asks incredulously.

“Street food and music and hideous arts and crafts. It’s perfect.” I unfasten my seat belt and open the car door. “I need normal.”

Before he can stop me, I’m halfway to the fair. The tents host various artists and crafters hocking everything from paintings to handmade soaps to any of the hippie paraphernalia necessary for a Californian lifestyle. I peruse them until a familiar pair of hands grab my hips.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’m hungry if that’s okay with you.”

“Eating is normal,” I assure him. But when he heads for a restaurant, I grab his hand and yank him toward the food trucks. “This will be faster.”

“What is it?” He stares at the truck as if it is a spaceship.

“What can I get you two?” The man calls from the window.

“How hungry are you?” I ask Jameson. He holds his hands out wide and grins. At least he’s going to be a good sport about it, even if dinner doesn’t come on bone china. “Four carne asada and four al pastor.”

Jameson leans so close to me that I can smell his cologne. My mouth begins to water and I’m not sure if it’s from the promise of food or him.

“You forgot to order the side of salmonella,” he whispers

“I think they throw that in for free,” I mutter.

A few minutes later, he’s devouring his own words with a side of garlic-lime salsa. “Okay, you were right,” he grants me when we toss our empty taco trays in the trash. “I’m converted. Now I’ll only order food from trucks.”

“I hear there are a lot of food trucks in New York.” I throw it out like bait to see if he’ll bite.