The ride home is more comfortable. I’m relaxed on the bike and actually trust Tate when he says he wouldn’t let anything happen to me.
It seems to take twice as long as it did to get to the bar and I get the feeling Tate is dragging the ride out as long as he can. Every time we stop at a light or stop sign, he uses it as an excuse to hold my hands against his chest or pat my thigh, which rests so tightly against his own.
I won’t lie; I’m enjoying the trip.
I hand-gesture signals leading to my apartment, and Tate pulls up to the curb. I hop off the bike and fiddle with the strap on the helmet. Tate leans forward on the bike and pushes my hands aside while he undoes the strap. Slowly pulling the helmet off and placing it over the handlebars without removing his eyes from mine.
Reaching forward, he grasps my chin in his fingers as he rubs his thumb along my bottom lip.
“Thanks for tonight. I had a great time,” I say breathless.
And I really did. Sitting on Tate’s lap, enjoying the music together . . . we didn’t talk much because the music was so loud but it felt so comfortable . . . so right. His hands lazily running over my skin has given me enough ammo to end the night right. Well, as right as is possible—in my bed by myself with my battery-operated boyfriend.
“So, come home with me. It doesn’t have to end just yet.”
“Tate.”
“Harper.” He smirks.
“Come on. It was a wonderful night between friends. Please don’t ruin it.”
“Harper.” His voice is exasperated and stern. “I can’t stand to watch you date any more of those fucking losers.” He runs his hand over his short hair. “Come home with me tonight and be done with it.”
I look away, unable to meet his fierce gaze. He is drawing me in like all the others. He is just another Aiden, and I need to fight this pull. All his small touches and sweet words tonight were all just a lead-up to getting me into his bed.
He grips my chin again and forces me to look at him. “Come home with me,” he whispers.
It’s best I remind him and me why this is not a good idea.
“Is this how you got all those girls at the bar to go home with you?” I say snarky.
He groans as he releases his hold and drops his head back, growling to the sky.
Tate brings his eyes back to the road in front of him. His face is blank, and his eyes are empty. “Go inside, Harper.”
“Tate, we’re friends.”
“Just go inside, Harper. Have a nice weekend.” He doesn’t look at me, and I reluctantly turn away from him and head towards the apartment foyer door.
I unlock the door and glance back one last time before I step inside. Tate is watching me, frustration shining in his eyes, his face lined with disappointment.
As I close the door and head to my apartment, I hear his bike tear off down the street, much faster than I’m comfortable with. Shaking my head, I unlock and enter my apartment. I stalk to the couch and throw my purse at it before I fall down on top of the bright yellow cushions.
What a shit ending to such a great date. Night. Such a great night. For God’s sake, Harper, pull it together. Maybe I should’ve gone home with him, worked off some of this steam and sexual tension.
Reaching for the remote on the coffee table, I switch on the TV and flick through the channels until I find some half-decent police drama. My phone buzzes next to me and I rifle through my purse, only to find it hidden in the bottom corner of the bag.
Unknown Number: I told you we weren’t friends.
What the? Is it Tate?
Me: Who is this? How did you get this number?
Unknown Number: I told you Daisy everyone has their secrets.
Tate. Butterflies tickle my stomach just from hearing from him. At least he is still talking to me. He must have calmed down a bit, maybe come to his senses.
Me: So you’re talking to me then? You left in a bit of a hurry.
Unknown Number: Sorry about tonight. I didn’t even tell you that I had a great time too. Maybe we could do something tomorrow after your date?
Me: I’ve given myself the weekend off. It’s hard work you know all this dating.
Unknown Number: Ha! I bet it is. I’m going to miss my nightly entertainment.
Me: Entertainment at my expense? I’m sure you’ll survive.
Unknown Number: Maybe. Have a good weekend Harper.
Me: Have a good weekend Tate.
I exit out of the texts and add Tate to my contacts before I notice another message sitting there.
Brooke: Hey hon feel like working tomorrow? Easy day just folding and making booklets for opening. I’ll be there from 10ish. We can order in lunch. Xo
Glancing at the red and black clock on my wall, I see it’s well after one o’clock. I decide to message her back so she sees it as soon as she wakes.
Me: I’ll be there. You know I have nothing better to do! Hehe. See you at 10. I’ll bring coffee and bagels! Xo
Deciding I should go to bed, I switch off the TV and head to my bedroom, placing my phone on the bedside table to charge before heading to the bathroom to wash my face and get ready for bed.
Changing into some sleep shorts and a singlet, I crawl into bed, flipping off the lamp and setting the alarm on my phone. I notice another message; Brooke must be awake. Probably having wild sex with her totally hot and totally perfect fiancé.
Gah, green is not my colour.
I giggle to myself when Tate’s name appears on my phone. My choice of contact name for him, seeing he has now become my go-to for dating advice, seemed appropriate and freaking hilarious.
Master McLovin: I forgot to mention I’ll miss seeing YOU!
I gasp as my heart flutters. I hate how he can make me feel this way. Like he no doubt did all the others before, using sweet words and lines of complete bullshit. And even though I know this, it still sets my blood on fire.
I need to find a good therapist. Maybe try some aversion techniques or something. You know, date more douchebags until I’m not attracted to them anymore. Isn’t that the kind of crazy shit therapists get you to do?
Hey, there’s an idea. I could sleep with Tate until I fall in love with him and he completely crushes my heart so bad I don’t ever want to date again. Even though no man to date has been able to have that effect on me.
Tate, though? I know that one is a different story. I can feel it. The way not only my body is drawn to him, but my mind, too. Something about him calls to me on a deeper level, and I know if Tate was given the chance, I would end up crushed. Crushed and probably never to be repaired again. Completely unfixable.
I delete his message so I can’t read it over and over again all weekend. Like deleting it will somehow erase it from my mind. Placing my phone back on the bedside table, I roll over and turn my back to it as though it’s offended me. I will my thoughts to focus on something else—anything else.
As I lay awake, I can’t help but think of Tate. Tate’s arms wrapped around me tonight. Tate’s fingers running along my skin and setting fireworks off in my belly. Tate asking me to come home. Tate’s sweet message. I forgot to mention I’ll miss seeing YOU!
Needless to say, I don’t get much sleep.
My alarm buzzes at 8:30am and since I only fell asleep just after six, I can barely open my eyes. I bang around on my bedside table, hoping to hit my phone and stop the buzzing. When I finally feel it, I bring it an inch away from my face and slightly peel open one eye to try to focus on the screen.
Tapping the snooze button, my hand relaxes, dropping the phone onto my face. Fuck, I let go too early. I was aiming for my chest. Rolling over, I groan as I rub at my nose, trying to alleviate some of the pain.
After laying in bed for another twenty minutes, I am now running well behind schedule. Jumping out of bed, I dash to the bathroom to quickly shower and get ready.
Seeing as it’s not a proper workday, I opt for jeans and a T-shirt. I’m out of the apartment only a few minutes late an
d head to get coffee and morning tea for Brooke and me. Deciding to skip Emilio’s for my favourite pastries rather than running into Tate, I instead head to the deli, which is a few extra blocks away, even though I’m already running late. It’s the lesser of two evils.
By the time I arrive at the gallery, it’s ten thirty, and I find Brooke sitting on the office floor, piles of paper spread out around her.
“Morning.” I yawn. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No worries, hon.” Her bright eyes lift to mine. “Thanks for coming.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t have anything else going on.” I place Brooke’s coffee and pastries on her desk. “These are yours.”
“Thanks, babe.” Brooke jumps up from the floor. “Sax is playing golf today with an investment client, so thought I may as well get something accomplished rather than sitting at home and watching my recorded TV shows all day.”
I chuckle at Brooke’s unhealthy obsession with bad reality TV, which rivals my own.
Flopping down in Saxon’s office chair, I set out my pastries. I bought enough to feed an army because I couldn’t decide what I felt like. Choosing to start with an apple turnover, I lean back in the chair and stuff my face with the sweet treat.
Brooke sits down in her own office chair, grabbing a glazed doughnut with one hand and her coffee in the other.
“Thanks for this,” she mumbles around a mouth full of food.
“No worries.” I yawn again.
“You’re tired. What did you get up to last night? I noticed your text came through pretty late.”
“I’m not tired. Not more than normal, anyway,” I lie.
“Harper, you’ve yawned nonstop since you stepped in here, and your eyes are all red and bloodshot.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You’ve either been up all night or you’ve been crying. Or both.”
I release a loud sigh. I may as well tell her. As much as I don’t really want to talk about it, I could probably do with hashing it out with someone.
“I went out with Tate last night,” I say casually.
“On a date?” Her eyes go wide.
“No, not really. I had another shitty date last night that ended early, thank God, and I think he felt sorry for me so he asked me if I wanted to go out to this bar with him.”
“That sounds like a date to me.”
“He was already going and offered for me to join him. That’s like a pity tagalong invite.” I know it’s not completely true, but I want to play it down a little bit to Brooke, otherwise I know she’ll get super excited and make a big deal out of nothing.
I don’t get why people do that. Once they find someone and are living in pure honeymoon bliss, they set out to make sure everyone around them finds it, too, suddenly believing in soul mates and true love, and that everyone can find it. The fact is, it’s not true, and it may not be true for me. I have to come to terms with that.
“So, was it a good night?” Brooke asks.
“Great.” I tell her all about the bar and the fantastic band who played. About Tate’s flashy bike, which doesn’t seem to surprise her at all, but I leave out the more private details. Like the intimate way he touched me, or how he practically begged me to go home with him.
“I really like Tate,” Brooke says.
“You hardly know him.”
“Sure, yes, that’s technically true, but I just get a good vibe.” Brooke looks away to glance around the room while sipping her coffee. “Does that mean we can start ordering lunch from there again? Saxon and I were saying the other day we were missing their lunches.”
“Anyway . . .” I bring her attention back to me. “He is like all the others. Sweet-talking his way into panties all over town.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“You should’ve seen him last night at the bar. Nearly every girl there knew who he was and wanted his attention.”
“Harper,” Brooke says seriously, “you should know better than to judge a book by its cover. A, because you know it isn’t always right, and B, because you know how it feels.”
I purse my lips as I think of my parents, sitting in their naive bubble and refusing to see the world and people for what they really are. I’m not like that, am I? I certainly don’t want to be. What a hypocrite it would make me.
“Come on.” I gesture to the floor, covered in pamphlets. “Let’s get stuck into this.” I don’t want to think about Tate Washington anymore.
Brooke and I sit on the floor for hours listening and singing along to a local radio station while we sort and staple pamphlets and booklets. We order in sushi for lunch and eat on the floor, different trays of choices all around us.
I fall into bed later that night fully clothed, not even bothering to wash off my make-up. With no sleep last night and working most of the day today, I am exhausted. I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow and I dream of coffee, tattoos, and the most beautiful blue eyes.
Enjoying a good sleep in on Sunday, I rise from my zombie-like state at midday. I have a quick shower to freshen up and decide to lounge around in my yoga pants, a T-shirt, and watch movies all day. The time drags, even though I slept through half of the day, and I am relieved when it’s finally late enough to go to bed without being considered a complete old nanna.
So lying in bed just after nine, I’m frustrated as I toss and turn, again thinking about Tate. He has been a constant in the back of my mind all weekend. I have missed seeing him these past two days and nerves and excitement flow through me at the thought of seeing him tomorrow night.
I could text him. No.
Well, why not? I do have his number.
I reach over and pick up my phone, holding it to my chest while my inner war continues. Fuck it.
Me: Have a good weekend? Scare the wits out of any other females?
Smooth, Harper, smooth.
Master McLovin: Don’t play it up Daisy. Your hold had definitely lightened up on the way home. ;)
Dammit. My ploy to find out if he took out any other women didn’t work.
Me: What have you been up to?
I know it doesn’t guarantee me an answer, but for some reason it bothers me that I don’t know how he spends his spare time. What does he spend his weekends doing? Did he have a date? Go back to the bar and pick up one of the random women who were fawning all over him?
Come to think of it, I don’t even know if he has a girlfriend. I’ve never asked him flat out, and it hasn’t come up. Did I assume he didn’t because he has been coming onto me? I should know better than anyone that means nothing.
No, no way. I may not know Tate well, and I may think he is a bit of a player, but a cheater? He would more likely throw a girl away like a piece of garbage when he felt like trying something new, rather than cheating.
Oh God, Harper, stop, stop, stop. I need to stop speculating. I could go back and forth forever.
My phone buzzes and clears my crazy wayward thoughts.
Master McLovin: Played golf yesterday and worked today. What about you? Any more awkward dates?
Me: LOL No. I have one tomorrow night.
Master McLovin: I’d say that I can’t wait to see you but watching you with another guy doesn’t exactly do it for me.
I let out a breath.
Me: Goodnight Tate.
Master McLovin: Goodnight Harper. I can’t wait to see you! ;)
Holding my phone to my chest, a huge smile overtakes my face. I’m a giddy teenager just at the thought of him.
Standing in my living room, I fold the small amount of washing I have. I know I’m procrastinating because usually I wear my clothes straight off the couch. I think the last time I folded and put away my clothes was when I lived at home with my parents.
Once I’ve stacked my clothes in my drawer and tidied all the clothes off my bedroom floor, I return back to the lounge room and glance around, looking for anything to keep me here five minutes longer.
Five minutes more before I have to face Tate.
I don’t know if I’m more nervous about his freak-out on Friday night or because of our texting last night.
Either way, I have to deal with him, so I grab my purse and jacket and head out. I take the long route and by the time I get there, I’ve pumped myself up with various versions of a pep talk. Straightening my shoulders, I pull the café door open and step inside.
My gaze is immediately drawn to Tate. I’m drawn to him. His eyes meet mine and his face lights up with the sweetest smile. He nods to the side and mouths your date, raising his eyebrows in mockery. I don’t even glance in Glenn’s direction as I give Tate a shy smile, warmth rising to my cheeks.
It feels awkward now, having Tate watch me on a date after our own ‘date’ on Friday night. As much as I try to tell myself it wasn’t a date. After the things he said to me, the way he was with me . . . Something heavy settles in my chest, and it feels a lot like guilt. Maybe I should’ve moved my date someplace else.
Tate’s sweet smile morphs into a cocky grin, and I realise it’s because I’m still standing by the door, still staring at him, still smiling like an idiot.
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes at him and he chuckles. I turn towards the table and see Glenn sitting there. Wow. For once, a guy has underestimated himself on his profile. Glenn’s photos must be pretty old because it looks as if he has hit the steroids hard since then. His muscles are bulking out of a tight black T-shirt. Although I actually don’t think the T-shirt is made to be that tight.
Glenn stands as I approach and wraps me up in his strong arms. I’m sure he’s about to swallow me whole as his huge arms envelope me. My face gets squashed up against his hard chest, and I hope he releases me soon as I struggle to catch a breath.
He finally frees his hold to pull out my seat for me. A huge smile lights up my face; I’m shocked by his chivalry. This date is already ten times better than the others have been. My shoulders relax with the hope this might not be so bad. It also might be the distraction I need to keep my mind off Tate.
The conversation starts off nice enough—general chitchat about weather, families, hometowns . . . I have time to study to Glenn’s face—the hard lines and light stubble. I want to reach out and run my fingers along his jaw. Not many men can pull off the unshaven look, but he wears it well, his gorgeous face only enhanced by it.
Whatever You Do Page 8
