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My heart presses up against my rib cage with every hard beat as I retrace my steps back up to her face. She’s not looking at me. She’s smiling at Nick, who’s walked over to give her a side hug.
I force myself to look away.
We eat dinner in the living room, everyone crowding around the couch and the small breakfast table tucked into one corner. It’s just enough space for each person to have a spot if Tate sits on the floor. Once I realize that’s her intention, I stand.
“Here. Sit,” I tell her, lifting my plate as I scoot around people.
“No, it’s okay. I actually like sitting on the floor.”
I shoot her a pointed stare. “Tate.”
She laughs, dimples and all. “I’m fine! Sit. You’re the one whose body needs to be in tip-top shape.”
“Nurses have hard jobs too,” I point out. “You just got off a long shift. You’re probably exhausted.”
“She always sits on the floor,” Josh says with a shrug.
I don’t know what to do. I want to press the issue. I could go over and scoop her up off the ground and carry her to my spot on the couch, no problem. But I don’t want to make a scene.
I scowl, and she shakes her head, wearing that little smile again. “It’s all good, I promise.”
If she won’t stand up, then I have no choice.
I go over to where she’s sitting with her back propped against the wall and her legs stretched out on the floor in front of her, and I do the same. I mimic her down to her crossed ankles, only my legs stretch out a good foot longer than hers do.
She laughs. “You’re crazy. Go sit.”
“I am sitting.”
Her eyes narrow playfully, but I pretend there’s nothing out of the ordinary, like I splay my 6’2” frame out on the floor to eat dinner all the damn time.
“Lasagna’s good. Have you tried it?”
I nudge her arm so she’ll pick up her fork and stop staring at me. I’m not moving no matter what she says. We’re in this together now.
She shakes her head and scoops up a bite. I watch her eat it like it’s new to me. Huh. So that’s how it works…
Her supple mouth closing around her fork. A little dab of red sauce left behind on her bottom lip. I can smell her shampoo, her body wash, everything.
Her eyes glisten as she releases a groan of pleasure. As soon as she’s swallowed the bite, she wags her fork at Daphne.
“Daph, you are the best. This lasagna is insane.”
Daphne pretends to bow forward in thanks.
“My lunch was good too,” she adds.
“I aim to please,” Daphne responds in a cheesy accent.
“Oh really?” Dustin cuts in, eyeing Daphne like he’d like to eat her up. “Tell me more.”
She just ignores him.
I open my mouth to ask Tate something like How was work? So you like Italian food? I saw a lot of books in your room, you a big reader? when what I really want to ask is Why did you leave that party without giving me your number? Did you already know who I am? Did it matter to you?—but Sophia speaks up first.
“So have you bumped into Michael at work, Tate?” she asks. “Since he asked you out last week?”
EIGHT
TATE
I go absolutely rigid.
Why, Sophia?! Why?
I don’t want to dissect my love life with these guys, especially not Grant. But when I look up at her—to telepathically tell her off—there’s a knowing gleam in her eyes, a cheekiness that unsettles me. Why bring it up? Is she trying to be helpful? She knows I can’t (i.e. won’t allow myself to) have feelings for Grant, so maybe this is her way of helping us all understand that.
I focus down on my plate. “Yes, we talked today actually.”
“And?” she presses. “Did he mention anything about the date?”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Nick flails his arms out like he’s a referee. “Some dude asked Tate out at work? Who?”
Oh god, here we go…
“Yes. Michael.” Sophia stresses the word like she’s annoyed he can’t keep up. “He’s a physical therapist, right?”
I nod.
“And he’s nice and cute and he helps babies learn to roll over for a living. I’m sorry, that’s just the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” Daphne adds.
I clear my throat, aware of Grant’s intense gaze on me. My cheeks feel hot under all the attention.
I push my salad away from my lasagna so everything is perfectly demarcated on my plate. “I mean…that’s not his whole job. He does a lot more than that.”
“Okay fine, but did I get everything else correct? He is cute, right?”
Why am I blushing?! I know it’s not because of Michael.
“He’s…sure. Yes.”
It feels wrong to admit it aloud, like I should be lying or downplaying it to help safeguard Grant’s feelings, but why? This is what I want; it’s all part of my plan.
