Page 155 of Gilt

“I can help you with that.” He saunters, forward tugging his t-shirt over his head. The site of his perfectly stacked abs does a lot to relieve my anxiety. “Of course, maybe I don’t want to take your mind off things.”

He plays with the button on his jean, and I can’t help licking my lips. “Maybe you could work on persuading me.”

I don’t bother to tell him that right now a few blissful moments of oblivion are exactly what I need.

“I can do that.” He lets his jeans fall to the floor before he pounces onto the bed. “Allow me to show you one of the many benefits of marrying me, Duchess.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

The next morning, the siren song of New York lures me out of bed. I leave Jameson sleeping peacefully, eager to venture out on my own. It’s liberating to be in a city hundreds of miles from where you live especially given my newfound infamy in my hometown. Tugging my hair into a messy knot at the top of my head, I slip into a sun dress and sandals. I barely remember to grab my sunglasses before I head out the door. The hotel is quiet. In a few hours, the halls will be filled with people checking in and out, businessmen meeting for lunch, and the cleaning staff coming to make beds. I prefer it this way. I enjoy the relative anonymity of the crowds bustling along the street and the sense of being lost in the chaos.

It’s nearly impossible to go unnoticed here, not when you’re walking down the halls with Jameson West. It’s a bit like being caught with the commanding general. The staff doesn’t salute him, but everyone stops what they’re doing and grovel. He’s accustomed to it having spent his whole life bouncing around between his father’s properties, shaking hands, and glad-handing; it’s second nature to him. I prefer to blend into the wallpaper. The elevator delivers me to the first floor. I’m a few steps toward the staircase that will deposit me into the main lobby when I spot Mr. White; so much for going unnoticed. While the manager’s effusive hospitality is understandable, I’m not up for it at seven in the morning.

I freeze at the top landing and begin to pivot slowly. If I take the elevator another flight down, I could exit through the bellhops’ entrance; but before I can flee, Mr. White calls my name. “Miss Southerly. Miss Southerly.” I do what any confident, well-adjusted woman would do in this situation. I pretend I don’t hear him. Scurrying back toward the elevator, I jabbed the button and pray the cars haven’t been called to higher floors. A light ding over my head, and I’m relieved when one opens just as Mr. White’s insistent call grows closer. Inside, I press the button to close the doors and head to the lower lobby. It’s empty, save for a bellhop who’s too busy tagging stored luggage to notice me.

I push the sunglasses onto the bridge of my nose and head out the side door. Despite the early hour, it’s already muggy. My forehead instantly dampens in the presence of the unfamiliar humidity. Growing up in Las Vegas I’m no stranger to heat, but desert heat isn’t like this. By the time I happen upon a little pastry shop a few blocks away, I’m swiping at the sweat collecting under the rim of my sunglasses. I can’t help but wonder as I stare into the pastry case if New Yorkers know how good they have it. Sure, back home I could choose between a gourmet champagne brunch courtesy of whatever celebrity chef has plastered his name on the local hotel or a massive buffet at all hours. There’s no such thing as quaint in Las Vegas which means there’s nothing like this there.

I order a bagful of French pastries that I can’t pronounce and cappuccino. At least growing up in the desert has taught me how to drink hot coffee regardless of the temperature. I take my time heading back and watch as New York City comes to life, store fronts open, cars begin to clog the streets, and swarms of people descend on to the financial district to start the day. I try to maintain a leisurely pace but soon find myself swept along, forced to keep up with the current rushing about me. By the time I spot the familiar W emblazoned on the West New York Tower, I’ve finished my cappuccino and I’m ready for a cold shower. Zigzagging through the crowds toward the front entrance, I don’t notice anything unusual until my feet hit the small courtyard outside the door.

Instantly, the air fills with shouted questions and camera clicks.

Click, click.

“Ms. Southerly, why are you in New York?”

Click, click, click.

“Can you confirm that you eloped with Jameson West?”

Click, click, click.

“What do you think about the allegations against your stepfather?”

Click, click, click.

“Is it true that you’re pregnant with Jameson West’s baby?”

I stumble forward, trying to worm my way past them. Somewhere along the line, I lose the bag of pastry. If the paparazzi think they’re getting a photo op when I just lost my éclairs, they’ve got another thing coming. They crush forward hiding behind the cameras that they push into my face. I’m seriously considering going all Baldwin on them when a firm hand closes over my elbow.

I’m relieved to see Maddox standing in front of me. He pulls me through the crowd and whether it’s due to the sheer size of him, or the unmistakable fury rolling off his body, the crowd of reporters parts like the Red Sea before us. Security guards are stationed at each door, providing a flesh and blood barrier to any journalists intrepid enough to try to get inside the West New York.

Jameson is at the front desk barking orders in a low voice to a trembling Mr. White, who looks even paler than his name suggests. Thankfully, the other hotel guests accustomed to five star establishments, and their celebrity clientele, discreetly look past us as Maddox delivers me to his boss.

“What were you doing?” Jameson turns his wrath on me.

I give him a blank stare.

“What were you doing out there?” he repeats.

Apparently, he’s not getting the message. “I’m not on your payroll, Jameson West, so don’t talk to me like I’m one of your ass-kissing employees.”

Mr. White shrinks back behind the desk either afraid that this argument is about to go nuclear or seizing the opportunity to detach himself before Jameson can continue berating him.

“Mr. White says he tried to stop you.” Jameson jerks his head at the manager, but he’s no longer standing there. My boyfriend looks around for a moment before he gives up. “He says you ran off.”

“That might have happened,” I admit feeling a trifle sheepish for fleeing the premises earlier.

“Why would you do that?”