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Tate fidgets, shifting to turn her back to me so she can people watch out in the club.
How long are we going to sit here avoiding each other? Who knows. I have a beer to drink, so I’m more than content.
It’s not even a full minute before Tate flags down a passing waiter and asks for a cocktail of her own.
“I thought you weren’t going to drink tonight,” I say, biting the bullet.
She swallows and then reluctantly looks over her shoulder at me. Her eyes narrow. “I shouldn’t. I have to be at work in…” She pauses to do the mental math. “Less than eight hours.”
Fuck. I feel bad. “I can take you home.”
“Like hell you will.”
If she could, she’d spit on my offer.
I smile. Feisty tonight, I see. I don’t mind…
“Where’s Michael?”
She raises a taunting eyebrow. “Where’s the girl who was grinding on your lap?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll find her again later.”
It doesn’t feel good to say it. If my dad were here, he’d slap me upside the head. We’re being immature, the both of us, but I can’t seem to dig my way back from this. I’m annoyed. On edge. Looking for a fight.
“If you scooted closer, I’d be able to hear you better. We could talk.”
“I’m fine,” she says, turning her attention back toward the club.
Her dress cuts low so that most of her back is on display, no bra strap covering any of her beautiful tan skin. It feels wrong to look, too intimate to see all that skin…the slope of her spine begs to be touched. I want to run my hand across the smooth skin, down until I reach the small of her back. Would she shiver for me like she did last night? When I traced the numbers on her jersey? My jersey.
“You don’t want to go dance with Daphne?”
“I doubt she’s dancing. She’s probably off somewhere fighting with Dustin.”
“What is it with those two?”
The waiter comes back and sets down her cocktail. Tate reaches for her wallet in her purse. “I’ll go ahead and pay now if that’s okay.”
That way she can make an easy exit…
“You can put it on my tab,” I tell the waiter.
He nods without confirming this with Tate then walks away to take care of another table.
Tate doesn’t thank me for the drink. Of course not. If anything, she’s about to pour it out onto the floor slowly to teach me a lesson.
I’m smiling, imagining it as she peers back at me. “What’s your problem?”
I raise a brow but otherwise stay quiet.
Sophia and Josh stand to leave the booth, and I don’t even look at them go. Tate doesn’t either. She’s too busy scooting closer to me. She’s finally within arm’s reach.
I keep my hands firmly on my beer just in case I can’t resist the urge to touch her. Her slender neck on full display. Her tantalizing cleavage in that low-cut dress. Her cinched waist in that short dress…
“What’s changed?” she demands haughtily. “Is this about Michael? Because I already apologized for that and you have no right to be jealous.”
My gaze clashes with hers on that final word.
Jealous.
“Why can’t you just accept that he’s good for me?” She says this while staring directly at my mouth. I’m not even sure she realizes she’s doing it.
“Is he?”
She swallows and looks away. “He fits the mold I’m looking for.”
“Mold?” I press. What the hell is she talking about?
“I have certain things I’m looking for. Standards, you could call them, for what I want in a boyfriend.”
Her voice is so wobbly it’s like she doesn’t even buy this crock of shit herself. It’s why she can’t look at me.
“You mean it’s easy to feel nothing for him? To be completely bored at the thought of him? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
My short laugh his caustic and angry. “What are you so afraid of?”
She looks down briefly. “Luke—”
Oh god, she can’t be serious.
“This isn’t about Luke,” I snap.
She lifts her sharp gaze.
“He’s part of it,” she argues, her eyes challenging me to tell her otherwise.
I want to call bullshit, but instead, I skirt around it.
“What else?”
“I don’t date baseball guys.”
“What. Else.”
God, does she really buy these excuses?
“Can’t you just get it through your thick skull?” She comes even closer on the bench. It’d be so easy to lean in and kiss her. She’d taste like that margarita she ordered. “I don’t want you. You scare me. You make me feel everything. Every damn emotion, and not just the good ones. The worst ones—jealousy and rage. God, you bring it all out.”
“Good.”
Those emotions? That’s passion. That’s something deep down inside—within our cells—recognizing what this is.
“Not good, Grant!” she argues, clenching her jaw. “I don’t want that. I enjoy being in control. Ask my friends, they’ll tell you. In school, I studied hard for my exams and earned straight As. With my running, I always, always keep to my schedule and my route. I never deviate from my training plans and there’s a box filled with clinking half-marathon medals in my closet to show for it. I go to work where I complete the same tasks, check, check, check, done and done. There’s no drama, no high highs, no low lows, and I like it that way.”
