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He wonders what I look likenaked? Fine, I’ve wondered about him too. The pool moment didn’t help matters—just made my thoughts even more chaotic. “Do you think I showed too much skin?”
I sound like a naive little baby—which I guess I sort of am when it comes to this type of stuff.
While Tate has probably done everything. Experienced things I’ve never even imagined.
“You didn’t show enough,” he stresses. “And fucking Roger had to show up at the worst time.”
Right. When Tate had me pinned against a wall, our mouths fused and his hands kneading my butt. “His timing was awful.”
Tate’s eyes flash. “So what you’re saying is, you didn’t mind me feeling you up in the pool.”
Busted. “Well, when you phrase it like that...”
He laughs, reaching out to snag my hand again, curling it in his. “You’re a lot more... easygoing than I thought you’d be.”
“How did you think I’d be?” I ask, almost not wanting to know.
“You were very uptight the night we met at your party. And you continued that uptight attitude for a while.”
“A while?” I arch a brow, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.
“Every time we were together, for the most part.”
“From what I remember, you seemed to enjoy antagonizing me,” I remind him. “Then you had to go and ask me to be your”—I lower my voice—“fake girlfriend, and I really thought you’d lost your mind.”
“Yet somehow, here you sit in a restaurant after traveling clear across the country with me.” He kisses the back of my hand again, this time his warm lips lingering on my skin, his gaze never straying from mine.
Deciding I might as well play along—I am contractually obligated to, after all—I stretch my fingers out, reaching for his face, my fingers skimming along his jaw. His eyes light up with surprise, and I’m proud of myself for making a move.
For willingly touching him.
I’ve got a long way to go if I want to be considered bold.
The server appears by our table, interrupting the moment. “Just checked with the kitchen, and your entrées are almost ready. Would you care for something more to drink?”
I drop my hand from Tate’s face, quiet as he takes over and asks for refills, though his gaze is still on mine. I smile back at him, and the moment our server is gone, I murmur, “I need to use the restroom.”
Tate frowns. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Someone might follow you in there, Scarlett. And want to talk to you. Dig for information. Or worse, take your photo.” His tone is dead serious, as is his gaze. “You need to be careful.”
“I’ll be fine. There are all sorts of celebrities in this restaurant right now.” I glance around, trying to spot one, but I don’t recognize anyone sitting nearby. “At least I think there are.”
Tate’s concerned gaze tracks my movements as I rise to my feet. “Want me to escort you there?”
“I’m a big girl,” I reassure him. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” The doubt is thick in his voice, and I feel his gaze on my back as I walk away. By the time I’m in the bathroom, I’m breathing a sigh of relief, telling myself Tate was completely overreacting.
When I’m in the stall taking care of business, I hear someone enter the restroom, her heels clicking on the tile floor. The person washes her hands, the water running for what feels like forever, and by the time I’m slipping out of the stall and about to approach an empty sink, I realize Tate wasn’t overreacting at all.
“Scarlett Lancaster, right?” The woman standing in front of me is tall and extremely thin, wearing a black pantsuit with a bright-pink tank underneath the jacket, her heels the same pink color. Her dark hair is cut into a severe bob that hits right at her chin and swings back and forth as she talks, her head moving animatedly. “You’re Tate Ramsey’s latest piece.”
The word slips from my lips without thought. “Piece?”
How freaking insulting.
