Page 24 of Sugar (Gilded #1)

Easton: Funny thing happened last night. I found the card I gave you tucked in my pocket. Would you care to explain that?

Me: I would not.

Easton: Madeline.

Even over text, I could somehow hear the stern way he said my first name. It sent a zip of electricity to mix with the effervescent giddiness bubbling through me.

Me: It had your name on it, so I returned it to its rightful owner. You’re welcome.

Easton: What did I say about trying to give it back to me?

Me: Nothing.

Easton: Are you sure that’s how you want to play this?

Me: It’s the truth.

There was a bang on my bedroom door, and I jumped out of my skin. For a wild moment, I thought he’d appeared to make his displeasure known.

I hoped that was true.

But it was Greer who shouted, “You better not have fallen back to sleep.”

I opened the door and startled my friend. “I didn’t.”

Though, that’s not a bad idea.

Heading out to the kitchen, I found Wren eyeing the bag I was looking for.

“This store is crazy luxurious. John bought Mom a pair of heels from there for their anniversary, but she hasn’t even worn them yet. And you know my mom with shoes. She has them in a display case so they don’t get scuffed or dirty.”

I believed it. Despite the delicate straps and thin heel, the gorgeous shoes had still managed to be supportive and comfortable.

Or as comfortable as heels could be.

“I probably shouldn’t have left them in the bathroom then, huh?” I admitted.

She let out a panicked squeak and took off to rescue the shoes. Greer followed after—likely just to look at them.

I took the opening and snagged the notecard from the bag before quickly taking a picture. I sent it to Easton.

Me: Exhibit A. You said HAND it back to you. Which I did not do. So again, you’re welcome.

I tossed my phone into my bag—a cheap one, not the golden clutch—just as they reappeared.

Greer hadn’t been kidding about the mimosa plans, so we opted for a place within walking distance. We used the trip there to discuss my night, and both of my besties were underwhelmed that there really wasn’t more to the story.

“Leave it to you to twist Cinderella into the tale of scoops and sources,” Wren said with a pout. “I spent the night imagining that he’d whisked you away to some fairytale ball.”

So did I.

Except in my late-night fantasy, he’d whisked me away to Gilded.

Unlike our romantic friend, Greer understood the benefits of my arrangement with Easton. “Boring or not, this was a godsend. You’re going to be able to dive into the journalistic workforce with more connections than people who’ve been at it a decade.”

Since the first month of classes hadn’t included a revelation of exactly what she wanted to do with her degree, I could hear the envy in her voice.

“Is that worth it, though?” Wren asked as we approached the restaurant. “What if one of you catches feelings and gets hurt?”

“It won’t happen,” I said with zero hesitation.

Easton had made it clear what we were. He’d never even tested the boundaries the night before when he’d dropped me at my apartment door.

In my case, my brain had already pulled off one of those dramatic baseball plays in the outfield when the player slams into the wall to snag the ball at the last second before it could become a home run.

Feelings were solidly caught.

But a little crush wasn’t going to stop me. I’d already done a better job at remembering it was all an act to save myself from more whiplash.

Her lips curved down. “Do we at least get to see this dress?”

“I didn’t take any pictures, but I’ll remember next time.”

Her question reminded me of the photographers at the event. None of the flashing cameras had seemed pointed at us, but a rush of panic shot through me anyway. I tore my phone from my bag and hurriedly googled the event.

The article on the newspaper website wasn’t a lengthy one, but the large picture featured at the top of the page was of Vanessa.

I swiped to review the slideshow of images.

It seemed like coverage was only of the ceremony before we’d arrived.

The last two photos were of Easton—one of him accepting the award and one of him and Vanessa talking.

No sign of me.

Thank God.

It was stupid on my part, but I hadn’t considered the possibility we would be photographed together.

If I was going to continue being Easton’s date to events where there would be media coverage, I needed to give my parents a heads up so they weren’t caught by surprise at my smiling face in the background of someone else’s shot.

It wasn’t a conversation I was anxious to have.

Not that I thought my parents would be upset—probably. Maybe. I doubted they would, at least.

For one, I was an adult.

For another, their own age gap left them very little room to judge.

For yet another, Easton and I weren’t.

Pushing that impending debacle to the back of my head to deal with at a later time, I handed my phone to Wren. “If it’s any consolation, I can show you how good my not-date looked.”

“Wow,” she said. “You can’t even see where he filed down his devil horns.”

“You’ll eventually have to drop your grudge against lawyers.”

“Never.” She passed the phone to Greer.

Her hazel eyes widened. “A business advantage and eye candy. You did good.”

With nothing more to say—and no juicy details to squeeze out of me—we moved on to talking about Wren being hot for teacher. I lasted until I was one mimosa in before sneaking another peek at my phone.

And the unread messages I’d sent.

Doubt began to creep in. Not just over the message I’d sent, but also at returning the card in the first place. I could’ve easily kept it but not used it.

Maybe I shouldn’t have played it like that.

Tone is hard to tell over text, and I might’ve come across as stupid or ungrateful.

Shit.

I fought the urge to respond again with something that would take the situation from awkward to worse. I needed time to actually think about the words coming out of my mouth.

Er, from my fingers.

I thought I’d done a good job playing it chill throughout the meal, but when I felt my phone vibrate, I snatched it up so fast, I nearly spilled the contents of my purse.

Easton: I think we need a sidebar to discuss terms and rules so that we’re both on the same page. Wednesday at 7.

Me: We have rules?

Easton: No. YOU have rules.

I reread his text a million times, trying to decide how to respond.

I didn’t come up with anything, which was just as well. He hadn’t been asking.

Easton: I’ll pick you up then.

I tucked my phone away and tried to enjoy the rest of my mimosas, but my thoughts lingered on Easton and his messages.

What could the rules be?

And why am I so excited to find out?