“Yes, Jameson. With triplets. Eight months along – don't I look great?” she asked, turning to the side and showing off her flat stomach.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.
“I'm not pregnant, you idiot, I just wanted your help picking out an outfit.”
“I … what?”
“You were ignoring me, I wanted to get your attention.”
“And that's how you do it? Jesus fucking christ, Tate, I almost had a goddamn heart attack!” he snapped, finally standing upright.
“I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd react like that, I was just trying to be funny,” she explained, holding up her hands.
“I'm not fucking laughing.”
He was actually mad. She'd just blurted out the most ridiculous thing she could think of, something she'd felt sure would catch his attention, and he was acting like she'd just shot his favorite dog.
“Clearly,” she retorted. “And I'm sorry the idea of me carrying your child is enough to stop your heart.”
“Tatum, I'm pretty sure the idea of you being in charge of a tiny human being's life would be enough to give anyone a heart attack.”
“God, you're an asshole.”
“That was a very important client you just embarrassed me in front of.”
“Please, you embarrassed yourself. You do realize that babies are often a result of sex, right?” she informed him. He rolled his eyes and strode towards her, rolling up his sleeves as he went.
“Yes, and that's why all those brilliant doctors invented birth control.”
“Which isn't 100% effective.”
“Tate, are you actually trying to tell me something here, or are you just being annoying?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.
“Neither. I'm just pointing out that there is at least a 1% chance that I may someday have to tell you I'm pregnant, and that if I ever do, you had better not fucking react like that,” she snapped.
“I make no promises.”
“Sometimes I seriously think about hating you.”
“Please,” he snorted, hooking a finger into the top of her pants and yanking her close. “You couldn't stop loving me if you tried.”
“Keep putting that to the test.”
“Stop talking. I thought you wanted my opinion on what you should wear tomorrow,” he reminded her as he plucked at her clothing.
“Wanted, as in past tense. Now I don't care what I wear to your stupid fucking party,” she grumbled, not moving as he undid the button on her pants and pulled down the zipper.
“Pity,” he sighed, shoving her pants over her hips, causing them to pool at her feet.
“Why?” she asked, raising her arms as he yanked and pulled her shirt over her head.
“Because I think this outfit is what looks best on you.”
“Jameson.”
“Yes?”
“I'm only wearing panties.”
“Exactly. Now please stop talking.”
4
“So who all is going to be there?”
Tate glanced up. She was painting Rusty's toenails and they were sitting outside in the backyard. She'd turned on the pool lights and they cast an ethereal glow over everything.
“Some of his partners,” Tate replied, knowing her friend was asking about the barbecue. “People from his office downtown. I called Ang, but he's too busy this weekend to fly out here.”
“Probably a good thing,” Rusty sighed. It had been years since her one night stand with Angier, but she'd never fully gotten over it.
“You're totally welcome to invite anyone you want,” Tate suggested. The other girl snorted.
“Like who? All the old gang has moved on, and it's like I'm just … still here. Same ol' Rusty,” she sighed.
“Hey, I like 'same ol' Rusty',” Tate pointed out.
“Still. Ang has moved off to L.A., your sister is way out in the country. All of our friends are getting married and having babies and getting careers. Even you, the craziest of us all, is a settled down married woman. And here I am, still working in a bar, still living alone.”
“I may be bias, but I think the bar you work in is pretty awesome. I hear the owner is the best boss ever.”
Rusty was the general manager for O'Shea's, Tate's first bar. Call it nepotism, she didn't care – she knew Rusty was a kick ass bartender, and she'd worked in the field for so long, she knew how to run a good bar. Plus, it felt good giving something back to the friend who'd helped her out for so long. Tate made sure that Rusty's paychecks kept her well in order – she may have been living alone, but her new apartment was a mansion compared to the piece of shit they'd rented together.
“She's pretty rad,” Rusty laughed. “But her silent partner is a little scary.”
Tate looked up again, but Rusty wasn't looking at her – she was staring back at the house. Tate glanced over her shoulder and smiled when she saw Jameson pacing around in the conservatory. He had his cell to his ear and with his free hand, he was making a lot of angry slashing motions. Someone on the other end of his phone call was getting the sharp end of his tongue.
Lucky.
“You just ...” Tate stopped herself before she could say something stupid like “have get to know him”, because in all honesty, Jameson was almost scarier when someone got to know him. “It's like learning a language, right? Once you learn how to speak fluent Satan, he's not so scary. Being a dick and snapping all the time, it's just the way he communicates.”
“I think that's one language class I'll pass on,” Rusty laughed. There was a long pause and Tate concentrated on her work for a while. Then she cleared her throat.
“So there's no one at all you want to invite? No one with, say, sandy blonde hair? Green eyes?”
“Who are you talking about?”
Tate rolled her eyes.
“Oh, c'mon. You have been making googly eyes at that beer distributor for weeks now. What's the big deal?” she demanded.
“Not all of us are like you, Tate. We can't all be slutty mcslutbags,” Rusty teased. “What do you want me to do? Just jump him next time he comes into the back room?”
“Ew, no. Jump him in the office, there's a couch in there.”
“Yeah, and I shudder to think what you and Satan probably used to do on it. No thanks. I'll continue my spinster existence.”
“You could just ask him out. Invite him to the party,” Tate suggested, leaning back and putting the polish away.
“How? Just lurk around work all morning tomorrow – which is a Sunday, BTW – and hope he happens to show up?” Rusty asked, looking over her new pedicure.
“Call him. He has a home office, he always has his cell. Just do it,” Tate urged. Rusty was quiet for a minute, but then she shook her head, her strawberry blonde curls flying around with the motion.
“No. We've barely even spoken, what would he think if I just called him? I'll come to this party where I don't know anyone and I'll stand against the wall like I always do and then I'll go to bed. And then you promised you'd let me go home on Monday,” Rusty reminded her. Tate held up her hands.
“Hey, you're not a prisoner here.”
“You said if I wanted a ride home, I'd have to ask Jameson personally, and then he'd have to drive me.”
“He's a wonderful conversationalist.”
“You're a brat. You know that, right?” Rusty laughed.
“Yeah, I'm getting spoiled in my old age. And I'll make you a promise – I won't let you be a wallflower. I'll take you around and introduce you to a whole bunch of future millionaires. Then we'll get knee walking drunk and you can have nasty sex with one of them in the pool,” Tate informed her.
“Oh god, just stop. I feel a headache coming on.”
“Just try and get out of it – I'll make Jameson carry you downstairs.”
“He wouldn't.”
“He'd love it.”
As if he'd known he was being talked about, the object of their conversation came striding across the law
n. Tate almost laughed at Rusty pulled back into herself, wrapping her arms around her knees.
“Is everyone a goddamn vegan nowadays?” Jameson demanded once he'd reached them.
“No, I think they're all just mostly gluten free,” Tate replied.
“Shut up.”
“You're the one who asked -”
“I keep getting calls about peoples fucking 'dietary needs' and what they want at this stupid fucking party. Did I miss something? Because I thought when you were invited to a party, you ate whatever was fucking served to you,” he growled.
“Jameson, I was at a party with you once where all they had was cod, and you wanted halibut. You made the woman who owned the catering company drive all over at midnight looking for halibut,” Tate pointed out. He glared at her, but she was rewarded with a snicker from Rusty.
“I'm special, remember? These people should just be glad they're getting to come to my house. Isn't that enough?” he asked, finally sitting in one of the lounge chairs next to the girls.
“Maybe it's a religious thing,” Tate suggested. “Maybe they're life long vegans. Maybe they're just fucking with you. Who cares? Call the caterer, tell them to have options.”
“And now you know why I never do these things,” he sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead.
“This was all your idea, bro. You can call it off whenever you want,” she told him.
“Might not be such a bad idea.”
Tate frowned. Jameson, giving up on something? Where was the fun in that? She sighed dramatically and stood up, collecting the nail polish and files as she moved.
“Say Rusty, remember Thursday?” she asked. Rusty squeaked at first, as if she was shocked that they even knew she was there.
“Uh … yes?”
“The day I invited you over.”
“Yeah, I remember it.”
“Remember the guy who stopped by, Rich?”
“Sure.”
“What did you think of him?” Tate asked, absent mindedly filing one of her nails while she spoke.
“Um … he seemed nice?” Rusty replied, sounding questioning. Her gaze flicked between Tate and Jameson.
“Yeah, he did, didn't he? He's our age, don't you think?”
“Yeah, I'd guess so.”
“Gorgeous eyes. Did you see them? Deep blue.”
“Tatum,” Jameson said in a low voice, startling Rusty.
“Yeah, I thought they were brown at first, they were so dark,” she finally replied. “He was pretty hot in general.”
“He was, wasn't he? He was supposed to be at this party, I thought it would be perfect for you two to maybe get to know each other. But since Jameson is canceling it, I guess I'll have to call Rich up and arrange a coffee date for us all.”
“Tate,” Jameson's voice was sharp that time, full of warning. She waved her hand at him impatiently.
“Don't worry, we won't invite you. Just the three of us. Monday afternoon good for you, Rus?” she asked.
“Uh, no, actually. I have to open the bar,” Rusty reminded her.
“Oh, poo, that's right. Well, I'll have coffee alone with Rich, and I'll put in some good words for you. He was so nice, wasn't he? And the way he looked in those shorts, I was – ack!” Tate let out a startled yelp when Jameson grabbed her by the waist of her pants and yanked her off her feet. She fell into his lap, her pedicure supplies flying all over the place.
“I know what you're trying to do,” Jameson growled in her ear as he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. “And I get it, but enough is enough.”
“What? You said the party was canceled, and I think a good looking guy like that shouldn't be single. It's my duty to find him a nice girl,” Tate laughed, squirming against his hold. It didn't do any good, though, he just squeezed tighter and she found herself gasping for air.
“Rusty,” he suddenly said, directing his attention to the woman in the other lounge chair. She swallowed visibly and her eyes were so big, they seemed to take up half her face.
“Y-yes?” she stammered.
“Did I ever tell you that I was always partial to redheads?”
She went pale at that statement and Tate struggled to keep from bursting out laughing.
“I think I'll go inside now,” Rusty replied hastily as she stumbled to her feet.
“Yes, thank you, run along now,” he called after her.
“You're not very nice to her,” Tate snorted, pulling at his wrists.
“I'm not very nice to anybody. So, 'gorgeous deep blue eyes', huh? That's what does it for you?” he asked. He loosened his grip but didn't entirely let her go. Instead, he let his hands wander under her t-shirt.
“Maybe. Are you going to cancel the party?” she asked, then hissed through her teeth when he pinched sensitive flesh.
“No. I've already paid for everything. Are you going to flirt with Rich Klimas all evening?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how much trouble I'll get into if I do,” she breathed, leaning fully back against him, resting her head back on his shoulder.
“So much trouble,” he whispered back. “If I so much as catch you looking at him, you won't be able to walk right for a week. That much trouble.”
She shivered, then moaned when she felt his teeth against her earlobe.
“Then I am definitely going to flirt with him.”
5
Tate looked around the backyard. She could hardly believe she was at home. There were bales of hay stacked about for “ambiance” and a huge barbecue was back by the pool house. Amazing smells were wafting away from it.
A bevy of young men and women were walking around in matching outfits – jeans and gingham t-shirts. They carried appetizers and cocktails and, hilariously enough, PBR in tall-boy cans.
Satan must be shitting himself.
Jameson was actually mingling and chatting away. When she finally located him, he was laughing at something one of his partners said. Then he caught her staring at him and he glanced over his sunglasses, cocking up an eyebrow at her.
Yup. He's definitely uncomfortable.
Things were going pretty smoothly. At first, when everyone had shown up, things had been stiff and uneasy. A bunch of young brokers at the Jameson Kane's home – they hadn't known what to do with themselves. Luckily, Tate was a born partier, and Rusty wasn't too far behind her. They got everyone laughing and talking quickly enough, and pretty soon everyone was having a great time.
And bonus points for Tate, she hadn't spoken to Richard Klimas once. Several times she'd seen him making his way towards her and she'd taken evasive maneuvers. There were plenty of women at the party, he could find someone else to flirt with – she still couldn't figure out why he'd set his sights on her. Because of Jameson? Didn't he know better? There was only one outcome to a pissing contest with Jameson Kane.
She hoped Rich liked losing.
“Hey!” she said loudly as she sidled up to Rusty's side. The light was catching Rusty's hair, making it look like a fiery halo around her head. Combined with the flush in her cheeks and her wide, expressive eyes, she looked like a real life angel come to earth.
The man she's talking to certainly seems to think so.
“Hey, you!” Rusty squealed back, hugging Tate to her side.
“How're you two doing? Looking cozy,” she said.
“Great party, Mrs. Kane,” the guy said, toasting her with his can of PBR.
“Oh god, don't call me that, it just makes me sound like an old lady. Tate,” she introduced herself as she held out her hand. He shook it quickly.
“Howard Steele,” he replied.
“Wait wait wait,” Tate gasped. “Your name is Steele!?”
“Yeah. It's a weird kind of name,” he laughed.
“No, it's just … Steele … Rusty. Rusty Steele!” she practically yelled.
“Oh my god, Tate,” Rusty snorted, then she delicately hiccuped.
“Hey, I didn't e
ven notice. I think this means we have to get married, Rusty,” Howard teased. She blushed even more and it suddenly hit Tate that her friend was just a tad bit drunk, and more than a tad bit infatuated.
“I think we should at least kiss first,” Rusty giggled. “I mean, can you imagine anything worse than marrying someone only to find out they're an awful kisser?”
“I can imagine a few things,” he replied in a low voice.
Rusty's cheeks practically caught on fire after that comment, so Tate excused herself. She knew her friend had been having a pretty long dry spell. But vodka plus sexual frustration multiplied by over the top flirty banter pretty much equaled Boomtown. She was willing to bet the dry spell would be over before the night was through.
I'm like Cupid, only for sex. Way cooler.
She spied Sanders standing at one end of the pool, finally alone. He'd been surrounded by people all afternoon – over the years, he'd changed. He was halfway decent at socializing now. Or at least at pretending to socialize.
On top of that, he'd become something of a legend. Everyone at Kraven Brokerage had heard stories about Jameson's former assistant, the quiet man who basically ran everything, and yet wasn't anywhere near as scary as his boss. So all the new brokers had been eager to make his acquaintance and get on his good side, and the female ones hadn't been immune to his classic good looks.
Not to mention his new and improved physique. I better get over there before someone drags him away again.
“Having fun?” he asked when she came up alongside him.
“I am,” she assured him, then she slipped her arm though his and hugged close to him. “Everything seems to be going well.”
“I'm not a fan of the hay,” he said as he leaned over to brush some of the offending decoration off his pant leg. “But everything else seems to be going according to plan.”
“The hay makes everything quaint, it's great. Are you really leaving me on Monday, Sandy?” she sighed, laying her head on his shoulder.
“Yes. My flight departs at three-thirty in the afternoon.”
“It gets harder and harder every time,” she mumbled. He was silent for a second, then she felt his cheek against the top of her head, and his arm was squeezing hers tightly.
Reception (The Kane Series Book 5) Page 3
