“Oh, I'm sorry. Money a little tight lately?” she teased as Sanders disappeared inside the boat. She'd had all day to talk herself up, build up her courage. Talking to Jameson now, she almost felt like her old self again.
“Fuck you. I could buy this entire fucking city and dump it in the goddamn ocean, and my bank account wouldn't even notice. And do you know why? Because I earned that money. I can spend it any way I fucking want – you need to work for it,” he growled, waving the bills in her face. Tate shrugged.
“Restitution. You owe me. You're lucky I didn't buy a fucking $50,000 pearl necklace. You want me to stay? This is part of my new price. Suck it up,” she informed him. Jameson's eyebrows went up.
Now I've got his attention.
“New price, hmmm?” he questioned. He looked equal parts intrigued and wary.
“Oh yes. I am most definitely worth a lot more now,” Tate assured him.
“That's a matter of opinion.”
“And yours doesn't matter,” she mocked him. He rolled his eyes.
“I think I liked you better when you were all damaged and weepy.”
“God, you're going to burn in a special place in hell.”
“Probably. At least I'll have memories of you to keep me happy.”
“Stop talking. Where are you taking us to dinner?” she demanded, wading into the sea of bags and boxes.
“Nowhere. I had planned on us eating here tonight,” Jameson informed her. Tate turned back towards him.
“Seriously?” she asked, not hiding the disgust in her voice.
“Yes. Is my pathetic excuse for a yacht not good enough for her majesty to dine on?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“It'll do, but I was hoping for lobster and champagne,” she replied. He snorted.
“Tatum, the only time I buy a woman lobster and champagne is when I'm guaranteed pussy at the end of the night.”
She turned away. This was the part she wasn't prepared for; she didn't know if she would ever be prepared. Snarky banter was one thing – sexy banter was a whole other. It was too close to him. Sex and Jameson were like ..., synonymous. Tate could flirt with him, dangle herself in front of him, but she wanted to avoid sleeping with him. It was too dangerous. During sex, it was like he owned her body, her mind. Like they weren't hers anymore.
Probably because they never were.
“Pity. Guess I'll have to find someone else to buy me lobster,” she managed to sigh. Jameson barked out a laugh.
“Good luck with that. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are a million women here, all throwing themselves at anyone who looks like they've got money. So go ahead, give it your best shot,” he offered.
Ooohhh, he makes me want to kill.
Tate turned around and walked towards him. She took a deep breath and reached a hand out, pressed it against his chest. Felt the muscles twitch under her palm. She chewed at her bottom lip and dragged her fingertips across his front. Slowly, she did a full circle around him, letting her nails scratch a path around his body. When she was back in front of him, she leaned in close.
“Good thing I'm one in a million,” she whispered.
Jameson turned his head towards her and her breath caught in her throat. They were very close together. She could barely remember the last time they had been so close. She let her eyes wander over his face, his newly sun-kissed skin, his dark lashes, his lips. Lips that she knew could treat her so well. Lips that were so close to her own. He leaned a little closer and she could feel his breath against her mouth. So close ...,
“When is dinner?” Sanders' voice boomed across the deck.
Saved by the bell.
Tate smiled and looked up, but only to find Jameson staring very hard at her. She looked in to his eyes, really looked, probably for the first time since she had gotten to Spain. He looked angry. Or upset. Or maybe ..., maybe even hurt.
Not possible.
Jameson cooked dinner. Tate thought she was going to have a heart attack. She had never seen him cook before, hadn't ever seen him even operate a microwave. She kept peeking in the kitchen, watching him as he made shrimp scampi. He caught her staring one too many times, though, and stood back from the stove, offering to let her cook. She snorted at him and sat outside.
The food was divine. Was there anything the man didn't do well? It was made even better by the fact that she was eating it on the Mediterranean. Tate was so caught up in all their drama, that sometimes she forgot she was in a whole other country. She toasted Sanders with her water glass, and then Jameson disappeared into the boat.
“I thought this would be more appropriate,” he said when he reappeared, carrying a bottle of champagne.
Her breath got stuck in her chest as she watched him pour a glass for Sanders. She hadn't had any alcohol since her little episode. Tate didn't think she was an alcoholic, but it was also very obvious she couldn't trust herself around the stuff. One brush with death was enough for her to learn her lesson. Jameson poured a glass for himself, then raised his eyebrows at her.
“I don't think I should,” she told him.
“Aright. But what do you want?” he asked. She bit her bottom lip. Champagne wasn't exactly something she got treated to very often. Nick was more of a beer kind of guy, and not only was Ang poor, he was more of a double vodka-black out drunk kind of guy. Tate held out her glass.
“Just a little,” she instructed him.
“Fuck you. I could buy this entire fucking city and dump it in the goddamn ocean, and my bank account wouldn't even notice. And do you know why? Because I earned that money. I can spend it any way I fucking want – you need to work for it,” he growled, waving the bills in her face. Tate shrugged.
“Restitution. You owe me. You're lucky I didn't buy a fucking $50,000 pearl necklace. You want me to stay? This is part of my new price. Suck it up,” she informed him. Jameson's eyebrows went up.
Now I've got his attention.
“New price, hmmm?” he questioned. He looked equal parts intrigued and wary.
“Oh yes. I am most definitely worth a lot more now,” Tate assured him.
“That's a matter of opinion.”
“And yours doesn't matter,” she mocked him. He rolled his eyes.
“I think I liked you better when you were all damaged and weepy.”
“God, you're going to burn in a special place in hell.”
“Probably. At least I'll have memories of you to keep me happy.”
“Stop talking. Where are you taking us to dinner?” she demanded, wading into the sea of bags and boxes.
“Nowhere. I had planned on us eating here tonight,” Jameson informed her. Tate turned back towards him.
“Seriously?” she asked, not hiding the disgust in her voice.
“Yes. Is my pathetic excuse for a yacht not good enough for her majesty to dine on?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“It'll do, but I was hoping for lobster and champagne,” she replied. He snorted.
“Tatum, the only time I buy a woman lobster and champagne is when I'm guaranteed pussy at the end of the night.”
She turned away. This was the part she wasn't prepared for; she didn't know if she would ever be prepared. Snarky banter was one thing – sexy banter was a whole other. It was too close to him. Sex and Jameson were like ..., synonymous. Tate could flirt with him, dangle herself in front of him, but she wanted to avoid sleeping with him. It was too dangerous. During sex, it was like he owned her body, her mind. Like they weren't hers anymore.
Probably because they never were.
“Pity. Guess I'll have to find someone else to buy me lobster,” she managed to sigh. Jameson barked out a laugh.
“Good luck with that. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are a million women here, all throwing themselves at anyone who looks like they've got money. So go ahead, give it your best shot,” he offered.
Ooohhh, he makes me want to kill.
Tate turned around and walked towards him. She took a deep breath and reached a hand out, pressed it against his chest. Felt the muscles twitch under her palm. She chewed at her bottom lip and dragged her fingertips across his front. Slowly, she did a full circle around him, letting her nails scratch a path around his body. When she was back in front of him, she leaned in close.
“Good thing I'm one in a million,” she whispered.
Jameson turned his head towards her and her breath caught in her throat. They were very close together. She could barely remember the last time they had been so close. She let her eyes wander over his face, his newly sun-kissed skin, his dark lashes, his lips. Lips that she knew could treat her so well. Lips that were so close to her own. He leaned a little closer and she could feel his breath against her mouth. So close ...,
“When is dinner?” Sanders' voice boomed across the deck.
Saved by the bell.
Tate smiled and looked up, but only to find Jameson staring very hard at her. She looked in to his eyes, really looked, probably for the first time since she had gotten to Spain. He looked angry. Or upset. Or maybe ..., maybe even hurt.
Not possible.
Jameson cooked dinner. Tate thought she was going to have a heart attack. She had never seen him cook before, hadn't ever seen him even operate a microwave. She kept peeking in the kitchen, watching him as he made shrimp scampi. He caught her staring one too many times, though, and stood back from the stove, offering to let her cook. She snorted at him and sat outside.
The food was divine. Was there anything the man didn't do well? It was made even better by the fact that she was eating it on the Mediterranean. Tate was so caught up in all their drama, that sometimes she forgot she was in a whole other country. She toasted Sanders with her water glass, and then Jameson disappeared into the boat.
“I thought this would be more appropriate,” he said when he reappeared, carrying a bottle of champagne.
Her breath got stuck in her chest as she watched him pour a glass for Sanders. She hadn't had any alcohol since her little episode. Tate didn't think she was an alcoholic, but it was also very obvious she couldn't trust herself around the stuff. One brush with death was enough for her to learn her lesson. Jameson poured a glass for himself, then raised his eyebrows at her.
“I don't think I should,” she told him.
“Aright. But what do you want?” he asked. She bit her bottom lip. Champagne wasn't exactly something she got treated to very often. Nick was more of a beer kind of guy, and not only was Ang poor, he was more of a double vodka-black out drunk kind of guy. Tate held out her glass.
“Just a little,” she instructed him.
