“I get the very distinct impression you're trying to distract me,” he said. She smiled and took slow steps towards the stairs.
“Is it working?” she asked, reaching up to let her hair down.
“So far,” he replied, his eyes following her as she started up the stairs.
“Good.”
They didn't make it to his bedroom. They didn't even make it to a guest bedroom. It would've happened right in the hallway, if Sanders hadn't been somewhere in the house. As it was, Jameson pinned her against the wall in a linen closet, and he was sure to make it sting.
Tate sat outside, bundled up in an old sweater that used to belong to Sanders. It was a bright, shiny day out – and totally freezing. She wore a thick pair of wool socks over her knee socks and had tucked herself into a lounge chair. She sat next to the pool, which had been covered, and took out her cell phone.
“I was just thinking about you,” Nick said when he answered.
“Psychic,” she joked, pulling her knees up to her chest.
“How're things?” he asked.
Tate had kept him mostly in the dark about everything that had happened. He just knew that she was back in Boston, and that she and Jameson were “friends”; she never elaborated on what kind of friends, and thankfully he never asked. By the time she got back to Boston, he had already moved into his house in Arizona. Spring training didn't start till mid-February, but he liked settling in first.
“Good, things are good. Just kinda hanging out,” she responded.
“No job?” he asked.
“No, no job.”
“What about school? You mentioned once -,”
“No, Dad, no school either,” Tate said sarcastically.
“Well, I worry about you. When you don't keep busy, you either vegetate, or get into trouble. And if you're going to get into trouble, I'd like to at least be there,” he told her. She snorted.
“I'm not getting into trouble, or 'vegetating', I promise. Sandy and I went up to New York the other weekend, he took me to the Natural History Museum, all that good stuff,” she assured him of her innocence. Nick would be the last person alive who would buy it, by the time she was through.
“You and Sanders alone together for a weekend, huh,” he said. She smiled.
“Ooohhh, sounds like jealousy,” Tate teased.
“No, no, not at all. Sanders is a very fine man. When you marry him, can I walk you down the aisle?” he asked.
“Of course. Now if we can just convince Jameson to walk with Sandy, it'll be perfect,” she joked.
“Is there any way we could not invite Jameson?” Nick asked.
“Jameson isn't the kind of man you don't invite places – he just invites himself, anyway,” she assured him.
“Not exactly surprising. So, when are you going to come visit me?” Nick asked.
They had talked several times about her coming out there. Nick thought it was a great idea. Tate thought it was horrible. She was in a bad place, a bad state of mind. She didn't want him to see her like that, and she didn't want him to become a casualty on her path to becoming a bitch.
“I don't know, Nick. When does training end?” she asked, for the millionth time.
“End of March. Tatum, it would be really nice to see you, before I have to go on the road,” he said in a soft voice. She hated his soft voice. It could make her do almost anything.
“I'll try, I promise. Maybe in a couple weeks, before training really gets under way,” she offered.
“That would be nice. I mean, there's no pressure. I just want to see you. I'm not asking for anything else,” Nick told her.
“I know that. Thank you.”
Sometimes, Nick felt like the only person who wasn't asking her for something, or expecting her to be anything. It was nice.
“Though I wouldn't stop you if you suddenly felt like getting naked and climbing into bed with me,” he threw out there, and she burst out laughing.
“Good to know, good to know,” Tate tried to contain herself. Then she saw Jameson prowling through the conservatory, and her laughter dried up.
“So. End of March?” Nick asked. She nodded, watching Jameson.
“I'll try,” was all she offered.
“That's all I ever ask. I gotta go. Take care of yourself,” he instructed her. She nodded again as Jameson finally walked out of the house.
“I never do,” she replied, then hung up the phone.
Jameson was slowly making his way towards her, his hands in pants pockets. She sighed as she watched him. He was wearing a suit, this one with a vest. It killed her. She wanted to lick the fabric, he looked so good. He had everything tailored, so everything fit him like a glove. She loved it. She always loved the way he looked; he always took her breath away a little.
Sometimes, he made it very hard for her to hate him.
“Talking with your boyfriend?” he asked snidely as he approached her.
And sometimes, he made it very easy.
“He's lonely. Can I go visit him?” Tate asked. Jameson snorted.
“Abso-fuckin'-lutely not,” he replied, standing right over her.
“Scared you'll lose me?” she laughed. He laughed as well.
“I couldn't get rid of you if I tried. No, but I don't want to have to fly to Arizona, of all the god forsaken places, to rescue you from some ridiculous situation you will no doubt get yourself into,” he answered, taking his hands out of his pockets and opening his jacket.