“How many times have you gone undercover?”
“Too many,” he scoffs.
“Do you always get soinvolvedwith your undercover identity?”
Tate’s eyebrow slowly rises. “If you’re asking if I sleep with all my persons of interest, the answer is a resounding no.”
“So, Stefania and I were special?”
“You are special. Stefania was a fluke. I never expected anything like that to happen, but I rolled with it.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret sleeping with Stefania? Yes and no.”
“Why yes?”
“Because I wanted to be with you.”
“Why no?”
“It gained me valuable intel.”
I analyze Tate, trying to figure the man in front of me out.
“What?”
“What’s your real name?”
“Tate Raymundo Collins. Raymundo is my grandfather’s name. I never got a chance to meet him. He died before I was born.”
I absorb this little piece of personal information about him.
“What else have you lied to me about?”
Tate shakes his head lightly. “Nothing except who I was. Everything I ever said to you was the truth.”
“Did you ever have a fantasy about having a threesome with me and Stefania?”
Tate laughs, and it lights up his impossibly beautiful face.
“Maybe once or twice.”
At least he’s honest.
“Did you actually consider starting fresh with me? Including chickens and goats?” He wonders aloud.
The question is painful to hear and excruciating to answer. “Yes, but how would that have ever worked?”
“I would have made it work.”
“Devising a plan, were you?”
“Yes.”
“Want to share it with me?”
“I didn’t have all the details worked out. But it involved a kidnapping, an explanation, some ropes and gags, a room full of flowers, and a lot of prayer.”
