He was absolutely fucking shocked.
It was too easy. Jameson knew that – Tate loved to rail against him. She never caved to anything easily, and she never gave up when it came to their little games. He couldn't figure out her angle. But since it worked so well in his favor, he acquiesced to her demands. He chartered a plane, and two days later, they flew out of Paris. On his birthday.
Happy fucking birthday.
Sanders wasn't very much help, either. It was like they were conspiring against him. Jameson knew Tate didn't believe him when he said he hadn't known that Ang was bringing Ellie. But he wasn't positive Sanders believed him, either, and that was a problem. Tatum trusted anything that came out of Sanders' mouth. Neither of them were speaking about it to him, though, and once again – she was still sleeping with Jameson at night, still pretending like everything was okay between them, so he didn't have incentive to make a fuss over it or to even really care.
Except you do care. You care so much, you can't even see your way around her anymore.
She didn't talk to Ang or Ellie during their remaining days in Paris, but on the plane ride home, there was a very tearful reunion of sorts. Ang tried to apologize, and Tate accepted, crying the whole time. Ellie cried and apologized, and Tate cried some more. Ang even shed a few tears. There were so many goddamn tears, Jameson thought he was gonna drown before they could even get back to America.
But despite the tears, there was something that rang ... false, about the whole scene. He couldn't put his finger on it. Tate had been so angry, and then to just be ... over it? And not just over it, but smiling and laughing like she hadn't been mad at all. Like she had never been mad in her whole life. Highly suspicious.
Technically, she didn't have a place to live in Boston anymore. Before going to Europe, she had been staying with her “friend”, the first baseman for the Boston Red Sox, Nick Castille. Jameson vetoed that idea before she could even say anything. She couldn't move back in with her old roommate, Rusty – the girl had found a new roommate. She didn't want to live with her sister, and Jameson didn't want her living with Ang.
He informed her that she would living with him, in a condo he had recently purchased in the financial district. Jameson had braced himself for an argument, was prepared to drag her there, kicking and screaming, but it wasn't necessary. Tate had simply agreed. He kept waiting for her to argue, to kick up a fight, but the moment they got there, she simply wheeled all her luggage into his room, demanded to know which part of the walk-in closet would be hers.
Something is most definitely fucking wrong with this woman.
He wanted to shake her. Ask her what the fuck was going on, what her silly little game was, now. But it was hard. He didn't want to slip back into having to fight for every smile from her. He had worked so hard to get back to a good place with her, and in their own kind of fucked up way, things were really good.
After picking out her section of the closet, Tate had pressed him against a wall and gone down on him, all while Ang and Ellie were sitting in the living room, oohing and aahing over his designer furniture. For the next two weeks, it was like old times between them. She had no qualms about fucking his brains out, anywhere and everywhere. As dirty and filthy as he could dish it out.
So who was he to ask her to snap the fuck out of it? If this was all a game, it was one he liked, very much.
“Tate?” Jameson called out, opening the door to the condo. He didn't see her anywhere, but he could hear music floating out from the bedroom. He opened the door wide and nodded, gesturing for the four large men behind him to enter the room. They all trailed in, carrying boxes and tape and plastic wrap. Jameson left them to it.
“Tatum,” he said her name again, walking down the hallway.
“In here!” she called back. His bedroom door was wide open, and he followed the music to the closet.
She was standing in front of her clothes, bumping her hips from side to side, following the beat. She was only wearing a lacy pair of booty shorts and a shelf bra. Her hair was a messy pile on her head. She was pouting her bottom lip out, trying to decide what to wear.
“What are you doing?” he asked, taking his gloves off as he walked towards her. She glanced at him.
“Getting dressed. What is this restaurant like? Heels? Stockings?” Tate asked, running her hand along some hangers.
“We're not going out to eat,” Jameson told her. She finally turned to face him.
“We're not? You said -,” Tate started.
“I know what I said. Plans change sometimes,” he snapped. She blinked at him in surprise, then smiled. He had been hoping to stir up a fight, but it looked like he was stirring up something else.
“Ooohhh, have a bad day?” she purred, pressing herself against him. Her body shivered when it came in contact with his cold clothing. Boston was still in the grip of winter – Jameson missed Marbella more than he would've thought possible.
“No. Actually, I had a very interesting day,” he replied, running his hands up and down her arms.
“How so?” she asked, sliding her arms around his waist. He dragged his hands up to her neck and held them there, then started walking backwards, forcing her to follow.
“I had lunch,” he replied.
“I assumed you had lunch every day. I didn't realize it was such a novel experience,” she snorted.
“I do have lunch every day. Today, I had lunch with Sanders,” Jameson continued, stopping them when he got near the bed. Her arms got stiff around him.