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.
“Sanders? How is he? I haven't seen him in a couple days,” she asked, but he could see something in her eyes. Maybe wariness? Nervousness. What was she nervous about?
“Lunch with Sanders, and Angier,” his voice got quiet.
Tate laughed and pulled away from him, climbed up onto the bed. When she was standing, she turned towards him and began to lightly bounce on the mattress. He had trouble not staring at her breasts.
“That must have been really interesting. Did anyone get stabbed?” she asked. He shook his head.
“No. It wasn't so bad,” he replied.
“What did you guys talk about?” she questioned, a practiced air of innocence surrounding her voice. Too bad he already knew there wasn't anything innocent about Tatum O'Shea.
“You,” he replied honestly. Her eyes got wide and she stopped bouncing.
“Really? And what did you say about me?” she asked. He smiled and ran a hand up the back of her leg, then dragged his nails back down.
“Well, Angier informed me that I have been benefiting from his sexual teachings,” he told her. She snorted as he moved his hand up her leg again.
“Fucker. I was already kinda freaky before he came along,” she said.
“'Kinda freaky'?” Jameson laughed.
“What did you say?” she pressed.
“I told him that there wouldn't have even been a you without me, so he could shut the fuck up,” he replied, really digging his nails in as he worked them back down her calf. She sucked air through her teeth.
“Bold statement, Mr. Kane. Doesn't sound like a very fun lunch,” she told him. He shrugged.
“Something good came out of it. I made a decision,” he started. He stopped touching her and took a step back. Out of kicking range.
“About what?” Tate asked, putting her hands on her hips.
He let his eyes wander over her body for a moment, committed it to memory. She was probably going to get angry. In the old days, when Tate got angry, it meant kinky sex. In Europe, it meant he wasn't allowed to touch her with a ten-foot-pole. Nowadays ..., he was prepared to be sleeping in a dog house for a very long time.
For someone who didn't want a relationship, this is all very relationship-like ...
“We're moving,” he informed her. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Moving? Jameson, we've only been here two weeks. Half my shit is still in suitcases,” she pointed out.
“Good, then it shouldn't take you long to pack. Which you should be doing. Right now,” he instructed.
“Huh?”
“We're moving tonight,” he explained.
“Tonight? Jesus, what, was there a fire sale on mansions somewhere around here?” she joked.
“I already own a mansion somewhere around here,” Jameson said softly. She stopped moving. Stopped blinking. It almost looked like she stopped breathing.
Ah, not a robot after all.
“You're going back to Weston?” Tate asked, her voice soft and low. He shook his head.
“We're going back to Weston,” he corrected her. She shook her head.
“No. I'm not going back there,” she said.
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“No, I'm not.”
“I'm sorry, did you think this was a debate? I didn't ask you if you were going, I told you that you were going,” he said calmly. She glared down at him.
“I'm not going into that fucking house, and that is fucking final,” she snapped.