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That’s not the way dating—or I—work.
Chapter Twelve
DREW
Just when I thought this night couldn’t get worse.
First Sarah Beth had a fit at Melissa’s because Mel’s husband was making lasagna instead of the angel hair pasta she likes, then my mom called and insisted on having a conversation about the summer family trip we don’t need to book for at least two more months, and then I hit a patch of ice on the way over and ended up in ditch.
Thankfully, I was able to push the car out with the help of an old friend who happened to be driving by, but the slip made me even later.
And more short-tempered.
When I saw Peter being Peter—drinking too much and hitting on every pretty girl who doesn’t know he’s the biggest player in town—I just…lost it.
I’m not proud of myself, but I don’t think I deserved a dressing down from Tatum, either. I was just trying to protect her and make sure she felt comfortable tonight.
Instead, I’ve made things weird.
She barely looks at me after Peter excuses himself for the night and I take his seat. She keeps her gaze on Ashley, laughing as she finishes the story of Bad Dog with a flourish. “The preacher agreed to keep his cats on the other side of the lake, near his trapping cabin, and the fisherman agreed to keep his bad dog penned up on this side of the lake, where it couldn’t terrorize the cats. But he loved that stupid dog so much that the pen kept getting bigger and bigger, until it was nearly the size of a town. So, eventually he founded the town of Bad Dog, Minnesota, vowing bad dogs would always be welcome here.”
“And they are,” Rick pipes up. “You can ask Duchess, my corgi. You have to see a picture, Tatum, she’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”
The entire table groans good-naturedly—Rick spoils his corgi more than I spoil my kid—but they all lean in to see the latest shot of Duchess in her pink and black pom-pom sweater.
“Precious,” Tatum declares. “What a perfect little lady.”
“Don’t let the cute face fool you,” Ashley says. “Duchess will poop in your bathroom if you go too long without giving her a snuggle.”
“Or run the vacuum cleaner,” Rick says, still grinning. “She hates the vacuum cleaner.”
“Sounds like Duchess and I have something in common,” Tatum says. “Cleaning is the worst.”
The table chuckles, clearly as charmed by Tatum as I am, and then the server is tableside, delivering another pitcher of margaritas. I pour myself a little more than I usually would in the name of catching up with everyone else, but the usually delicious lime concoction tastes like dirt in my mouth.
I hate this distance between Tatum and me.
I hate that I made her angry or, even worse, disappointed her. I liked the reflection I saw in her eyes before, of a man who went the extra mile for his daughter and drew boundaries because it was the right thing to do, not because he was jealous.
That’s what all that was with Peter.
At the time, I thought I was just cracking down on a wayward junior lawyer who has a habit of tying one on, but with the benefit of five minutes of hindsight, the truth becomes pretty clear.
I’m ashamed of myself and angry that I ruined what I hoped would be a good night with Tatum. I knew it wouldn’t be a date night, obviously, but I hoped to enjoy more of her company in an adult setting. I adore my daughter, but there are times when it’s nice to spend time with other grown-ups. I don’t get much of that, and now I’ve fucked up one of my few opportunities to enjoy down time with my colleagues and treat a woman I like to a nice night out.
It’s more than sexual attraction with Tatum.
I just…like her. Being in her company makes even silly things like the story of Bad Dog and a game of poker with my work friends feel special.
When we finish our fourth round of cards and Deborah excuses herself for the night, I lean in and murmur, “I’m sorry. Forgive me?” to Tatum too softly for the people bidding Deb goodbye to hear.
She shifts her gaze, glancing up at me from the corners of her eyes. “For what?”
“For being a jealous asshole when I have no right to be jealous. Or controlling. Or anything but supportive and kind and happy that you’re happy, whatever it is that’s making you happy,” I say, forcing my tone to remain light as I add, “Even if that’s Peter, the guy who always drinks too much and sleeps around. A lot. Like…a lot, a lot.”
Tatum’s lips curve. “I have no interest in Peter. But I also have no interest in being treated like your little sister. I’m not your little sister, Drew.”
