“Wow. Hell of a challenge, baby girl. You think you’re up for that?” he asked. She shivered at his use of “baby girl”, he had never called her that before – never called her anything. She cleared her throat.
“I think I’m up for anything I set my mind to,” she responded. He smiled.
“Good answer. Would you like a drink? Ellie should be home any minute, we could crack something open and have it ready for her,” he suddenly asked, getting out of his chair. Tate held up her glass.
“I have water right here,” she pointed out. He laughed as he pulled a bottle out of a cupboard.
“I meant a real drink, Tate. Seeing as how I’ve apparently ‘never’ talked to you, I guess now is a good time to give you some congratulations. I’m assuming I never did that, right?” he asked, holding a bottle of champagne in his hand. She laughed.
“No, you weren’t even at my graduation. And maybe just one glass,” she replied, pushing the water she’d been drinking out of the way.
Having been too busy with school and all her extra classes, Tate had never been a party girl. No crazy parties and almost no experience with alcohol. Some champagne at Christmas with Granny O’Shea at the O’Shea farm in the Hamptons was about it. But she didn’t want Jameson to know that – she wanted to seem mature, like a girl who had champagne all the time. It was silly, but she couldn’t help it.
They polished off the first bottle, discussing politics and the current economic situation in the country. He disagreed vehemently with most of her views, but he never got heated or upset. He managed to get under her skin, though, and she found herself arguing just to get a rise out of him, but he was impossible to rile up. The champagne loosened her up a little, and she was a lot bolder with her opinions; or at least, more so than usual.
“No more after this, baby girl needs to be presentable for her family tomorrow,” Jameson said, taking out a second bottle. She made a face at him.
They drank and chatted some more. Ellie texted him that she would be late. She was a paralegal, and her hours were all over the place. Tate was fine with that, she never felt comfortable around her sister. Ellie was tall and beautiful, with dark blonde hair that was always done up in just the perfect style. She was always wearing the most stylish clothing.
Tate was average height, with dark hair, almost black, and she had never paid attention to what was stylish, just wore what her mother bought for her. She was intimidated by Ellie, plain and simple. That’s why she was going into an accelerated program at Harvard – to beat Ellie. Ellie was the golden child, the favorite child. Tate had always had to work ten times harder, just to always fall slightly behind.
She wound up blabbering all that to Jameson. Then went onto tell him all about her boyfriend Drew, whom he couldn’t remember ever having met, even though he had – several times. How boring Drew was, how he always wanted to tell her what to do, but he never wanted to do anything. Jameson nodded and listened to her prattle, sliding the champagne out of her reach.
“You’re pretty funny, Tate. I never knew,” he chuckled. She rolled her eyes, shrugging out of her cardigan.
“Shocking. No one ever notices me, not when Ellie’s around,” she snorted, pulling her hair into a ponytail. He raised an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t say that, Ellie’s not as great as you make her out to be,” he told her.
“Pffft. She looks like what would happen if Cindy Crawford and Christy Turlington had a baby,” Tate pointed out.
“You’re pretty, too.”
“You have to say that, you’re her boyfriend. You have to be nice to me.”
“No I don’t. I’m hardly ever nice, and I almost never lie. You’re an attractive girl, you just have bad self esteem, and worse taste in men,” he informed her. She shrugged.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that Ellie is still better in most peoples eyes,” she replied, fiddling with the stem of her champagne glass. Jameson leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
“I wouldn’t say that. From a technical stand point, if we’re being completely honest, I would have to say that you’re much sexier than your sister,” he told her.
She didn’t breathe for a moment. Did Jameson Kane really just say that to her? Or was it the champagne? She glanced at him, and he was staring right back at her, a small smile playing on his lips. She shook her head and shook off her nerves. No. He was just being nice. That had to be it – what kind of a guy would tell his girlfriend’s sister that she was the sexier of the two? Not a very good guy, that’s for sure.
“Whatever. It’ll all be behind me in a couple weeks. It’ll be like a new Tate, that’s what I’m going for; Ellie can suck it,” Tate proclaimed, then abruptly hiccuped. Jameson burst out laughing.
“See, now that’s funny. Your sister sucking something – would never happen,” he joked. Tate could feel her cheeks turning bright red.
“Gross,” she blurted out.
“Too much? I guess we’re not that good of buddies yet,” he sighed.
“You shouldn’t talk that way about your girlfriend, it’s not very nice,” Tate told him. He shrugged.
“Sometimes she’s not a very nice girlfriend,” he replied. Tate’s eyes got wide as she had a realization.
“Are you going to dump my sister?”
“Now, why would you ask that?” Jameson responded, his smile gone as his eyes stared into her own.
“I don’t know. Your voice, your attitude. Are you?” she pressed. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I shouldn’t have given you champagne. I didn’t know you’d turn into Nancy Drew,” he commented.
“Oh my god. You’re gonna dump Ellie. You’ve been together for two years. She thinks you’re gonna propose. She’s gonna die,” Tate gushed, pressing a hand to her chest. His eyes narrowed.
“We haven’t even talked about marriage, why would she think that? And I don’t know what’s going to happen with Ellie and I, we’ve got a lot to talk about; do not talk to her about this,” Jameson commanded, pointing a finger at Tate. She raised her hands.
“I go out of my way to not talk to her, I won’t breathe a word. But can I ask why?” she pressed, reaching out for the champagne. Jameson didn’t even notice, he was so lost in thought, so she poured herself another glass.
“I don’t know. It’s … boring. Not exciting. Like you were saying about Drew. She wants this pre-programmed life, has everything decided for us. She knows what she’s having for dinner next Tuesday, where we’re going for the fourth of July, what we’ll name our first child. She goes to bed at ten, gets up at six – I’m not allowed to touch her between those hours, I’m not even joking. I don’t like being told what to do,” his voice got quiet towards the end. Tate nodded, taking a large swig of her champagne.
“Sounds like Ellie. Did you know, one time when she was mad at me, to get back at me, she got into my room and organized my closet? That was her idea of revenge,” she told him.
He burst out laughing, and that set Tate off. They both bent over, unable to breathe for how much they were laughing. It was hilarious, and it was totally true. Ellie was like OCD Barbie. Very pretty, and a little crazy.
“Oh my god, that sounds like her,” he chuckled. Tate nodded.
“I know! I’ve got a hundred more, she -” Tate started, but she was gesturing with her glass, and champagne sloshed all over her front.
“Oh god, I knew this was going to happen,” Jameson shook his head, but he was laughing. Tate snorted, holding her wet shirt away from her chest.
“Then you shouldn’t have given it to me,” she replied. He stood up.
“I tried to take it away. C’mon, I’m sure Ellie has something you can wear,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him. She got out of her chair.
“Oh no, she’ll kill me, I’m not allowed to wear her stuff,” Tate told him, following him across the living room and back into the bedroom.
“Who cares? She owns so much
shit, she’ll never know. Just grab something, her stuff is in there,” he explained, pointing to a section of the wardrobe before walking back out of the room.
Tate stared into the wardrobe for a while, letting her eyes wander over the clothes. Everything Ellie owned was expensive; from a designer. From a young age, Tate had been taught not to touch. Jameson had just given her free reign. She snorted and dove in, yanking back the hangers. She laughed and pulled down a silk blouse – it looked ridiculously expensive.
Perfect.
She spun around and threw the shirt on the bed, stumbling as she did so. She didn’t think she was drunk, but she was feeling a little light. Spinny. She laughed to herself, curling her fingers around the hem of her shirt and pulling the wet material up. She went to yank it over her head, but something happened. The shirt’s tag got caught in a string of pearls she was wearing, which then got tangled in her hair, and she was stuck with her arms in the air, struggling to pull the shirt one way or the other.
“Oh my god,” Tate laughed at herself, stepping back and forth.
She lost her footing and stumbled clear across the room. She rammed into something, a dresser, and moved so her butt was against it. She was really laughing now, struggling not to hyperventilate with the shirt covering her mouth. Her elbows were pinned above her head and she tried to reach the base of her neck with her fingers, arching her back. Her fingernails were just brushing the top of her spine when she heard something.
“What are you doing?”
She went stock still, her laughter dying. Jameson was in the room, and pretty close to her, judging by the sound of his voice. With her shirt up over her head, she was standing there in just her bra and khaki skirt.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
“Um, I got stuck,” Tate offered in a small voice. He chuckled, and he was even closer than before – right in front of her.
“Obviously. Help?” he asked. She managed to shake her head.
“No, I think I -” she started, but then felt his fingers at the neck of the shirt. He pushed it up, exposing her mouth and nose, but then left it there. She took deep breaths.
“Are you drunk, Tate?” he asked, talking slowly. She shook her head again.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’m just stuck,” she replied. He gave a small chuckle and she felt him pulling at the neck of the shirt again. A couple tugs, and the strand of pearls broke. She could feel them running down her body, some catching in her bra while the rest clattered to the floor. The shirt came free from her head and Jameson pulled it away, holding it in his right hand. He was staring down at her. She struggled to control her breathing.
“You’re very different from Ellie,” he told her in a quiet voice. She rubbed her lips together and nodded.
“I know,” she replied.
Tate knew she should move, should grab her shirt, do something to cover herself. Run for the bathroom. She should not be standing in front of her sister’s boyfriend, only wearing a black lace bra. He dropped her shirt as his eyes wandered down her body, and she found that she was frozen to the spot, unable to move a single muscle.
“Family heirloom?” he asked, then he reached out, tracing a finger down her chest. He ran it down her cleavage and she thought she might faint. But then he held his hand up, and he had a pearl pinched between his fingers.
“Present. From Drew,” her voice was just above a whisper. He examined the pearl.
“He’s cheap. It’s not real,” he commented. She almost laughed.
“What?”
Jameson let the pearl drop and his attention went back to her. Tate still couldn’t move. Had even stopped breathing. He was looking at her like she was dinner. She couldn’t believe it. Twenty-three year old Jameson Kane was looking at her, really seeing her, for the first time ever. It was wrong, so wrong. She tried to think of Ellie, but couldn’t make herself. She could only see his eyes.
“You should leave this room,” Jameson told her, his hands gliding onto her hips. Her skin jumped at his touch and she could feel an electrical current pass between them. She gave a full body shiver and nodded.
“I know,” she breathed. His fingers spread as his hands moved to her back, up to her shoulder blades.
“Ellie’s my girlfriend,” he reminded her. As if she needed it.
“I know.” Apparently her impressive vocabulary had deserted her. His hands slid back down, all the way to her butt. She put her hands on the dresser behind her, bracing herself.
“This isn’t just me.”
He’d said it as a statement, but she knew it was a question. She was feeling it, too.
“I know,” she whispered.
“If you want to run, I suggest you do it now,” he told her.
“Why?” she asked, and he leaned in close.
“Because I eat girls like you for breakfast,” he hissed in her ear.
Best Laid Plans Page 32
