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I forgot how tall he is. How impressively broad his shoulders are. He’s dressed in black again—a T-shirt that clings to his muscular arms and flat abs in a most appealing way that has me checking him out, my gaze lingering.
Then I realize I’m just standing there like a salivating idiot, so I push myself out of my fugue state and make my way toward his table, taking deep breaths to calm my suddenly racing heartbeat. There are way too many chaotic thoughts running through my mind. My pulse is erratic in my wrist, my neck—God, even my head is pounding incessantly.
This reaction can’t be from his presence or because of the way he’s smiling at me—which, I can’t lie, is quite nice. Almost reassuring. No, this must be nerves. And curiosity.
What more could he want from me? Daddy already paid him. Maybe he wants to apologize for the song. The response hasn’t been negative, but the conversation it’s drummed up about our relationship is completely over the top. Everyone has us already split.
And we were never actually together.
“Glad you made it,” Tate says when I’m close enough that I can hear him, his rich, deep voice wrapping all around me. That charming smile still plastered on his face. He pulls me in for a brief hug, his arms coming around me quickly, his lips pressed against my cheek, and I’m speechless.
I don’t recall ever feeling this way with Ian. Did I react like this when he touched me? Did he ever dare try to kiss me on the cheek?
No. Never.
Tate goes to the chair opposite his and pulls it out for me like a gentleman. “Have a seat.”
I settle in without a word, keeping my head bent, trying to hide the fact that I’m blushing. That I have no idea what to say.
How do I even start this conversation? His mere presence has stolen all my words, leaving me speechless, which rarely happens. I may be quiet, but I usually know how to make conversation.
“Are you hungry?” he asks once he’s seated across from me, his fingers curled around the edge of the menu. “I hear their sandwiches are good.”
“I already ate.” I finally lift my head to meet his gaze and find he’s already watching me. Those deep-blue eyes are the kind a person could get lost in if they don’t watch it, and I shake my head a little, leaning back.
Needing the distance.
“Have dessert then.” He flips the menu to the back and gazes at the items listed. “Looks like they have a decent selection. And I’m guessing you have a sweet tooth.”
“What do you mean?” Is he implying I’m... fat? I’ve always wished I were thinner, but it’s just not in my genes. My mother is on the curvier side, and I inherited that from her, so I have more boobs and butt than my friends.
I wouldn’t call myself overweight, but I am definitely self-conscious around my skinny friends...
“At your party, you had eighteen birthday cakes.” His gaze finds mine once more, his expression grave. “I assumed you like sweets. Maybe I was wrong.”
“No, I love cake.” I clamp my lips together, hating how my answer sounded. “My parents were the ones who made sure there were eighteen cakes. Kind of a play on Marie Antoinette, you know? Let them eat cake?”
“She was murdered for saying that,” Tate murmurs.
“She was a victim of the French royalty and society.” I will defend Marie Antoinette until I die. That poor woman was forced to marry the future king of France, who had no interest in her whatsoever. She was the one responsible for bringing the next heir into the world, and it was supposedly her fault she had a girl first.
I know we’re nothing like European royalty, but sometimes the pressures the Lancaster family faces feel as if we’re descended from a royal family. The expectations, the gossip... it all can be a lot. My father is the youngest of his brothers and the most open minded, thank God. He pulls away from his brothers more often than not, and I think my mother is a big influence on him as well.
I’m grateful for it. I know I wouldn’t want my uncle Reggie as my father. He’s the worst one.
“You’re right. She died a tragic death due to lies that were told about her by her own son,” Tate says.
I’m impressed by his knowledge. “He was forced to say those things. They had a child in jail, and they were abusing him.”
“True.” Tate rests his elbow on the table and props his chin on his fist, studying me, his gaze searching as it roams over my face. “I didn’t think we’d ever get into a debate over Marie Antoinette.”
This is a silly conversation, he’s most likely saying. “I don’t necessarily think we’re debating. Pretty sure we’re on the same side.”
“I agree.” He points at an item on the menu. “They have chocolate éclairs. Maybe we should have one in honor of Marie and France.”
“I don’t know...” A chocolate éclair sounds delicious, but they’re so messy.
“We could split one,” he suggests.
