Tate

by Susan May Warren

  She stared at him a long moment. Then she set down her carton, wedged the chopsticks inside. “Okay, Tate. Let’s not talk about your insatiable need to be better than Rube and Knox. Let’s not talk about the fact you’re still six years old inside and angry, hurt, and embarrassed after being bucked off a horse. Let’s talk about superficial things that won’t let you see that you don’t have to do anything to be awesome. Or loved. We’re already crazy about you, just because you’re you. Hardworking, reliable, brave, and heroic. So yeah, I’ll try and make it to the wedding.”

  He looked away.

  “But we’re still…working. At work. So…I probably have to work.”

  He looked back at her. “And I guess we won’t talk about your need to keep up with Ford. To save the world.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I am saving the world.”

  He didn’t think she was kidding, and a cold hand tightened around his chest. “In Italy or the Czech Republic?”

  She looked away, took a breath. “Listen, if I don’t make it, I’ll try and Skype in.”

  “You’re as bad as Ford.”

  “No, I’m worse. Ford is going to be there. He called me from San Diego. He’s going to surprise you all.” She looked back at him and offered a conciliatory smile. “Surprise.”

  He offered one back. “You’re terrible.”

  “But I know all the best delivery places, right?” She gestured to his food.

  “Yeah, you do.” He touched her hand.

  She turned hers in his and squeezed. Met his eyes with warmth in them.

  We’re already crazy about you, just because you’re you. He looked away. “I gotta go, my Uber is five minutes away.”

  “What—you’ve been here a total of three hours.” She let go of his hand as he got up.

  “I’m headed back to Nashville. It’s time for Glo’s silly game to end.”

  “Go get ’er, tiger.” She punctuated her words with a fist and a swing of her arm.

  He rolled his eyes. “Answer your phone once in a while.”

  She got up and gave him a hug. “Stay out of trouble.”

  Oh, there probably wasn’t a chance of that.

  “I’ll try.”

  She’d always known her mother’s life glittered. Glo just never realized that she might glitter with it.

  Or, that she wanted to.

  “You look gorgeous tonight, Gloria,” Sloan said as he opened the door to her limousine. She didn’t know when he’d stopped referring to her as Glo in public, but she noticed it now as she took his hand and climbed out of the car under the awning of the glorious and historical Hermitage Hotel in downtown Nashville. A top-hatted doorman stood at the ready, and a few flashes went off as Sloan led her to the door. He was dressed in a burgundy tuxedo jacket, this time with his collar buttoned, his bow tie perfectly symmetrical under his shaven chin.

  The man looked every inch a millionaire’s son, and for the first time she saw Sloan not as the neighbor next door, but as a man who embodied the future he’d tried to unfurl in front of her.

  Apparently, one he had hopes she’d want to run into with him.

  She caught a glance of her reflection in the massive glass doors. She wore a strapless, royal blue satin dress that hugged her body, all the way down to her silver stilettos, a vintage diamond broach at her neck, and diamond studs at her ears.

  Yeah, she’d upped her game since joining her mother’s campaign gigs. But her feet hurt, and frankly, she just might topple over if she didn’t hang onto someone.

  She slid her hand over Sloan’s arm as they entered the grand lobby. Marble arches and columns supported the ornate glass ceiling overhead and bounced light from the gilded chandeliers that hung from the four corners of the room. Sloan waved to a few reporters—handpicked journalists allowed to attend tonight’s private art auction-slash-fundraiser—and led her to the stairs where, on the balcony above, the donated pieces from local artisans were displayed. Watercolors and oils on easels, sculptures in mixed mediums on shelves and tables, and down at the end of the hallway, a crazy-looking goat made from discarded car parts.

  White-gloved waiters mingled with the guests—hobnobbers from Nashville society—and offered canapes and aperitifs.

  “Where is your regular hound dog?” Sloan said, leaning over to her, and she glanced at him, frowned.

  “Who?”

  “Your faithful bodyguard. You have a new guy.” He glanced behind him, and she followed his gaze. Rags trailed them, unobtrusively, five feet away. He met her eyes, offered a grim smile, then looked past her, on the job.

  “Yeah. The other guy left.”

  “Good,” Sloan said and slipped his hand over hers. “He made me want to punch him, the way he looked at you.”

  Probably Tate had felt the same way. She kept her smile but felt a tinge of guilt.

  Something to go along with her openly bleeding heart.

  She’d spent most of the afternoon fighting the desire to call him. Or better, hop on a plane to Montana.

  But why? She’d won.

  Except, it felt so very much like losing. Big.

  And poor Sloan. She’d used him in her little game, like a regular politician. Wow, she hadn’t quite realized how much her mother had rubbed off on her.

  She felt sticky and dirty.

  What if this was her world now?

  Lies? Political games?

  No. She didn’t want that life. But maybe as First Daughter in the White House, she could change the world. Make it safer, healthier, fairer. It wasn’t the stage, with the songs pouring out of her heart, but maybe it could be a different stage. I’m so glad you’ve joined our team.

  Yes, maybe she had.

  But she’d do it without the deceit. Which meant she had to tell Sloan the truth.

  Probably he wouldn’t want her either, after he found out what she’d done.

  The thought left her stomach tightening. Because she was a stupid girl to not be diving headfirst into handsome, successful, and wealthy Sloan Anderson’s arms.

  Sloan led her over to an older gentleman who was surveying a massive oil painting of sailboats.

  “Gloria, I’d like you to meet the other state senator, Roland McGraw.” She held out her hand and he took it. A beefy man, with a few steaks under his belt, he held a whiskey in one hand and hers in the other, his touch sweaty.

  “Darlin’,” the man said and looked her up and down.

  “Nice to meet you.” She untangled her hand, even as Sloan settled his on the small of her back.

  “Gloria is not only Senator Jackson’s daughter, but my girlfriend, so be nice to her, Senator.”

  The man laughed. “Well done, my boy.” He slapped Sloan on the shoulder.

  Glo tried not to be weirdly offended.

  The man moved away, and Sloan edged her to another man, a lawyer from one of the big firms in Nashville. Glo had never heard of it, but when he introduced her again as his girlfriend, this time he offered a wink.

  Since when had she become his official girlfriend? Although, given the time they’d spent together…

  She took Sloan’s hand and pulled him toward a bronze sculpture of a flying horse. In her painful stilettos, she was nearly to his shoulder. But she felt tall enough to meet his gaze. “Sloan…we need to talk.”

  But he wasn’t listening, or at least his body might be turned toward her, but his eyes were far away. “Do you hear that?”

  She stilled, listening. “What? The cello? The conversation—”

  “The country music.” He walked to the balcony and looked over.

  She joined him, and yes, she could hear it now, drifting up from the restaurant area, a half-floor below the lobby.

  “Aw, I told them not to book a wedding tonight.”

  “Sloan, it’s no big deal, you can barely hear it.”

  Except, yes, as the sound formed in her ear, she could almost start singing along.

  * * *

  She met him on a night like a
ny other

  Dressed in white, the cape of a soldier

  He said you’re pretty, but I can’t stay

  She said I know, but I could love you anyway…

  * * *

  The Belles’ song.

  He may have recognized it too because he looked over at her. “It’s a great song, but it’s a bad mix for our event.” He kissed her hand and headed down the stairs.

  Maybe she was a bad mix for the event. Because suddenly she just wanted to go downstairs, kick off these stupid shoes, hike up her dress, and two-step. Or better yet, take the stage and belt out the chorus.

  * * *

  But you don’t know if you don’t start

  So wait…for one true heart…one true heart…

  * * *

  And then, strangely, her eyes were filling, burning…

  She needed air. Because yes, she cared about her mother and the election and the team, but…she just needed a moment to breathe.

  To catch up to where her life seemed to be careening off to.

  She turned and spotted Rags standing a few feet away. Something on her face must have alerted him because he frowned and took a step toward her.

  Sloan stepped between them. “Okay, I think we got it settled. They’re going to wait until cocktail hour is over before they start the music. I told them we’d pay for another round of drinks for their guests.”

  “That’s pretty expensive.”

  “Your mother needs a night without complications.”

  He might have been referring to the shots fired at her last event—Glo didn’t know, but she couldn’t agree more. “I don’t feel well, Sloan. I’m going to go home.”

  He frowned, caught her elbow. “Are you sure? Your mother could sure use you tonight.”

  “For what…campaign candy?” She felt a little weird saying it, especially when Sloan grinned, lifted a shoulder.

  Yeah, now she really was starting to feel ill. “I’ll have Rags take me home.”

  “Who?”

  She gestured to the man standing a foot away behind him.

  Sloan’s mouth tightened.

  “But we do need to talk, Sloan. I…”

  “I’ll call you after the event.”

  “Maybe you could come over?”

  He was looking over the top of her head. But his focus came back to her, briefly, with a nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ll see you afterward.” Then, before she could pull away, he kissed her cheek, something quick but definitely public before he let her go. “Feel better.”

  Yes, she would, after they talked. After she told him that they needed to slow down. As in stop. Maybe reassess.

  Figure out who she was, what she wanted.

  Oh, how she wished it were Tate lending her his arm down the stairs, leading her to the limo.

  She climbed in, leaned her head on the seat. Closed her eyes.

  She felt her phone vibrate in her purse but didn’t answer it. It was probably her mother, berating her for leaving.

  Rags sat in the front seat, and now she lowered the partition. “How about some music? Any country station will do.”

  She closed her eyes again as a Cole Swindell song came on.

  * * *

  I took a few wrong turns…Down a couple back roads

  But wound up where I was supposed to…Making my way making my way to you

  * * *

  She thumbed away a tear and sighed.

  Looked out the window as the lights of the city splashed by. You’ve had a few rough starts, Glo-light, so I think you have reason to complain. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be safe. Or happy. Or to have someone protect you.

  Her throat thickened, remembering her father’s words.

  She disagreed. She didn’t deserve Tate. Not after how she’d treated him.

  It was better that he’d left. She’d make sure her mother gave him a good reference.

  She ran her hand again across her cheek.

  They finally pulled up in front of the house, and Rags gave her a sad, tight-lipped smile as he helped her out.

  “I’m just going to sit by the pool for a while, Rags, so…you can turn in.”

  He gave her a nod, although she wasn’t sure he was going to obey. She let herself into the quiet house and pulled off her shoes. Dangled them between her fingers as she headed to the kitchen. She dropped them on the tile floor, then opened the Sub-Zero in search of chocolate.

  Not a hope of comfort to be found. She closed the door and glanced out toward the pool. The empty lounger.

  And for some reason the memory of Tate sitting there compelled her outside. The bricks scrubbed on her bare feet, and she lifted her dress to keep it off the patio.

  She stood at the edge of the pool, the smell of chlorine lifting into the night. Overhead, the Milky Way spilled out in glorious repose, the air cool, carrying a touch of summer on the breeze.

  You are worthy of help. Of protection. Of sitting night by night by the pool in a lounge chair, pining.

  She ran her hands up her arms, a chill finding her bones.

  No, actually, she wasn’t. Not this time.

  Steps sounded behind her on the patio, and she glanced over her shoulder and spotted a figure standing in the shadows.

  She turned back to the pool, her hand on her stomach. “Sloan, I’m sorry for tonight. For leaving. I know I should have stayed, but…I just…”

  More steps, but she couldn’t turn to face him. Not with the lies between them. “I need to tell you something, and it’s going to hurt you, and I’m sorry about that, but I need you to know…when you first asked me out for dinner last week, I said yes because I was angry at someone. Very angry, and I used our time together to make him more angry. And I’m sorry for that because you’re a great guy and I shouldn’t have used you. You deserve better than me.”

  A breath drew in, and she closed her eyes. “I understand if you never want to see me again.”

  A hand slid over her shoulders. Warm, solid, sending a tremor through her. “If I never wanted to see you again, I wouldn’t have taken the red-eye from DC back to you.”

  She stilled, then suddenly turned.

  And he was right there. Standing in front of her, his smile a little chagrined, wearing a day’s whiskers on his face, his blue eyes shining down on her. He wore a black leather jacket, dark pants, and now took her face in his hands. “I know I’m not supposed to be talking to you, and especially not…touching you. But you looked so beautiful standing out here in the glow of the pool, I couldn’t stop myself.”

  Then, as if to add truth to his words, he leaned down and kissed her.

  Something powerful and possessive and thorough, and she couldn’t help but wind her hands around his body and pull him close. Kiss him back in all the ways she’d been dreaming of since the moment in Vegas. The moment when she’d decided not to let her past, her wounds tell her who she could—and couldn’t—love.

  Tate.

  He tasted of coffee, probably from his flight, and smelled of aftershave, the fresh scent of cotton, and the deep husk of leather. And when he nudged her mouth open, when he let her have the finest taste of him, she found the world dropping away until it was simply her and Tate. Alone under the spray of moonlight.

  Safe.

  He made a tiny sound from deep inside and almost with violence pulled himself away from her, breathing hard. Stepped back, his hand up. “Okay, okay. I… Sorry. I—” He wore a stricken look and swallowed, and the expression made her pause, too, her throat thick.

  “What—?”

  “Your mother is going to kill me.”

  “Why, because you had a deal?”

  She didn’t know where the anger came from, but when he nodded, she wanted to advance on him, push him. “What kind of deal? The kind to drive me crazy? To make me insane with worry? To break both our hearts?”

  “The kind to keep you safe!” He took a breath, schooled his voice. “I promised not to…well, do this. Right here. To do what
every instinct has been shouting at me to do since Vegas.” He stared at her, apparently okay with her seeing all his emotions—frustration, helplessness, anger, and desire. Oh, the desire. It dried her mouth. But when she took a step toward him, he kept his hand up.

  “Just give me a sec, here, Glo. I have to think.”

  “Think?”

  He lowered his hand and gave her a look. “If I do what apparently we both want right now, it involves more than just standing in the moonlight kissing you. Something along the lines of finding a car and driving us both far, far away. Away from the clutter and complications of your life, and yeah, I’m not exactly sure of the destination, but it would be with me. In my arms. Not Slick’s.”

  Oh, Sloan.

  She grinned at his name for him.

  “What’s so funny—?”

  “It’s just…nothing. I like that idea very much.”

  He drew in a breath, his eyes widening. “You do?”

  “Yeah. Save me, Tate. I…” She looked down at her gown. “I’m not sure who I am right now.”

  He groaned and closed the gap between them, his hand on her face. “You’re Glo Jackson. Singer, musician, rummy shark, late-night thumb battler, and the woman I would die for.”

  “You’re such a superhero, Captain America.” Her arms went around his neck as she pulled herself against him, moving his head down to capture his mouth. Tate. She could write a new song right here, right now, about love gone right and lost dreams showing up in the night, and maybe something about never giving up the fight and—

  A snap sounded behind her, in the bushes that lined the pool.

  Tate looked up, his entire body on alert.

  “Someone’s out there,” he said. He shoved her behind him. “Hello?” Then he turned to her. “Who’s on your detail tonight?”

  “Rags. But I sent him away.”

  Tate’s mouth tightened in a grim line. He grabbed her hand and took her into the house. “Turn the lights off and stay down, behind the island.”