“Hmmm,” she purred, lifting her hips as he slowly pulled her bikini bottoms away.
“I haven't slept with one single other woman since you.”
With words like that, she would give him anything. They could play all the games they wanted, and he would always win. It was his board game, his dice, his cards. She never stood a chance against him.
Tate had slept with a lot of guys in a lot of interesting locations, but she could safely say that in the middle of the day, on a tiny row boat, in the middle of the Mediterranean, was a first.
*
“Your color has improved,” Sanders commented, when he came to see them later in the day.
“You think? I've been soaking up as much sun as possible,” Tate replied, holding out her arms to examine her skin.
“I wasn't talking about your tan,” he told her. She laughed.
Jameson had set a table up on the top deck. Very intimate. However, he obviously hadn't counted on Sanders crashing the party. He had glared at him the whole time while they all ate. It made Tate laugh. Jameson had finally stomped away, in search of something stronger than champagne and water.
“It was a good New Year's party,” she replied. Sanders quirked up an eyebrow.
“Really? I was under the impression that it was just the two of you,” he said. She smiled at him and waggled her eyebrows.
“It was.”
“Good. That took long enough,” Sanders said, looking out over the ocean.
“Sandy,” she started, glancing at the stairs, listening for Jameson. “Why do you think Jameson and I are so good together?”
“Because you are,” he replied simply. She rolled her eyes.
“Seriously. Us being together is obviously a big deal to you. But, he doesn't want a girlfriend. I told you, he's never gonna really care about me. We're not gonna, like, be your parents, Sandy. He's going to leave me at some point,” Tate warned him. Sure, she planned on leaving Jameson before that ever happened, but she didn't think that needed to be said out loud. Sanders cleared his throat.
“I don't think of you as my parents. I have parents. Jameson is my guardian. You are my best friend,” he corrected her. She smiled brightly, pleasantly shocked.
“Really? Me? God, I love you, Sanders,” she gushed. He still wouldn't look at her.
“I want you two to be together because you make Jameson happy. He makes you happy. If you would both stop trying to assume what each other are doing and thinking, and just ask each other once in a while, things would be much better between you,” he informed her.
“You should be a marriage counselor,” she pointed out.
“Oh god.”
“I just don't think it's that easy, though. He's playing a game. At the end of this month, what, we're going to ride off into the sunset together? I don't think so. I'm not holding my breath for him to change,” Tate said. Sanders shrugged.
“That shouldn't be a problem, because he already has.”
Before she could question him further, though, Jameson came back up the stairs. Her eyes got wide as she saw the bottle he was carrying. He stared back at her while he took his seat, putting the bottle in the middle of the table.
“Scared?” he asked, giving her a wolf grin. She snorted.
“Terrified,” Tate answered honestly, her eyes traveling over the black and white label.
“I would just like to say, I think this is a bad idea,” Sanders piped up. Jameson glanced at him.
“No one asked you. Besides, this is for me,” he replied. Sanders cleared his throat and stood up.
“I think I should leave. I have everything arranged for Paris, sir. We leave in seven days?” Sanders clarified. Jameson nodded, leaning back in his chair.
“Yes. Did you book the hotel room for Angier?” he asked. Sanders nodded.
“I did, and one for myself. Are you sure you don't want us all in one suite?” he double checked.
“Positive. I never need to share a dwelling with Angier. My generosity has its limitations.”
“It seems to me that it would be more cost effective if -,” Sanders started, but Jameson held up a hand.
“We'll talk about it tomorrow. Go home,” he snapped. Tate wondered what the big deal was with not wanting to share a suite. It was already surprising enough that he didn't keep Sanders on the boat. Why the need for so much privacy?
I knew it. He's gonna sell me in to sex slavery.
“Very well. Good night. Good night, Tatum,” Sanders said, then hurried down the stairs.
“That guy,” Jameson grumbled.
“Is a very, very good guy,” Tate finished for him. He snorted.
“He's something, that's for sure. So, I figured, since we're conquering your fears,” Jameson started, and he reached out and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniel's. Unscrewed the cap. Tate licked her lips.
“I haven't had any serious kind of alcohol since that night,” she warned him. He nodded.
“I know. Sanders kept me well informed. You don't have to drink tonight, but I wanted you to have the option. I just want you to ..., feel safe. Around me,” he told her, not looking at her as he poured a shot.
“Oh my god, Jameson,” she laughed. He glanced at her.
“What?”
“That was really sweet.”
“Fuck off.”
“And I have never felt safe around you, so you can stop trying,” she teased him.
“You once told me that I didn't scare you,” he reminded her, sipping at the whiskey.
“That was a long time ago. A Danish beauty and a temper tantrum have taught me otherwise,” Tate replied. Jameson sighed.
“Never gonna stop, are you.”
“Probably not.”
He took the shot in one go, and then poured another. She raised her eyebrows, and it occurred to her that she had never seen Jameson drunk. Not once. He liked to drink, and drank often, but never to excess. She was suddenly very curious.
“How about,” Tate started, sliding the bottle towards herself. “For every shot I take, you take two.” Jameson narrowed his eyes.
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Chicken.”
He took his second shot, staring at her the whole time.
“Alright. Let's do this.”
She poured herself a shot, tried not to smell it. She knew if she smelled it, it would be that night all over again. She shuddered and tried not to think about it. Tate looked at him, concentrated on Jameson's eyes. He'd had new contacts delivered to the boat and his glasses were hidden away again. She could see his baby-blues without any hindrance. She stared at him while she took the shot.
“One down. You owe me two,” she informed him.
He snorted and took them back to back.
I'm so fucked.
Her tolerance was much lower than it used to be, Tate knew, but she had also eaten a large dinner. She took another shot a couple minutes later, then one more more about ten minutes after that; she figured she wouldn't need to do anymore. She'd had three shots – Jameson, eight. After his last one, she could definitely see a difference in him. She tried to focus, keep her head clear. She was a little drunk, but only just a little.