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“Sure, it does. I’m not always nice.”
“Yes, you are,” Tate smiled. “As fluffy as marshmallow and just as sweet.”
“Fuck off, Tay,” I grumbled. “That’s the most insulting thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Despite Tate’s easy laughter, and our usual banter, he seemed different.
Unsettled.
When we stopped at a red light, I noticed that he was fidgeting in his seat, tapping repeatedly on the steering wheel with one hand and using his free hand to rub his beard.
It wasn’t like him. He wasn’t a nervous person. Or, if he did have anxiety, he hid it well.
“What’s wrong? You’re jumpy.”
“Just a long week. I also have to be on set early tomorrow morning.”
“Why didn’t you say? We can go out another night.”
“No!” he yelled, and I startled. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, I mean, this is perfect. Erin assured me that this party is gonna be a good time.”
Something was going on with him, but I didn’t push.
If, when, he wanted to tell me, he would.
It took about an hour to get to our destination. We ventured the winding roads, climbing higher and higher, and finally arrived at a gated community at the top of a scenic cul de sac. Tate gave his name to the security guard, and we were waved through.
Every luxury car you could name was lined up along the street.
After we located a spot and parked, Tate motioned to the largest house on the street. We walked up the massive driveway, following the blast of music. But the closer we came to the front door, the more my anxiety spiked. And I had no idea why.
Maybe because Tate was still fidgeting.
I nudged his shoulder while he knocked on the door. “What’s with you?”
“Nothing. Nothing this party won’t fix,” he replied.
This was not the Tate I first met, the one who couldn’t stand the party scene.
He put on his professional smile when the door opened. A handsome man in his forties stood in the foyer.
“Tate! I wasn’t sure if you’d show up. Without Erin, I mean.”
“It is what it is. Life goes on,” Tate shook his head and a lock of hair fell over his eyes. “She’s happy in Miami, and I’m happy here.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, sorry,” Tate replied. “Kendrick Sloan, this is Reed Larkin.”
I offered my hand and Kendrick shook it. “Larkin… that sounds familiar. Are you one of Henn’s clients?”
I smiled. “I am.”
“Awesome, come on in. The party’s just getting started. Here.”
Kendrick handed over his phone to Tate first, then Tate passed it to me. I tapped on the eNDA and added my signature.
LA, gotta love it.
