Men. What a bunch of fuckers.

“Are you alright?”

Tate smiled as Sanders moved to stand next to her.

Okay, not all men.

“I'm fine. Just bored. How are you? Feels like we haven't gotten to spend any time together,” Tate said, pouting her lip out. Sanders cleared his throat.

“There'll be time later, I'm sure,” he replied, adjusting his tie.

Hmmm, awfully early to be twitching. He's nervous.

“Sandy,” Tate started. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Because of this party. Dinner last night. Ang. Isadora.”

“The party is because of the resort property he is investing in, Mr. Hollingsworth is for you, dinner was a matter of right-time-right-place, and Ms. Silva just happened to be an investor in the same resort,” Sanders prattled off quickly. Tate turned to fully face him.

“One thing I've learned about you – when I really want to know the meaning behind an action, you feed me all the obvious points. But I know you know what I'm really asking,” she called him out. He swallowed thickly, didn't quite meet her eyes.

“Then the question is why do you keep asking me, if you know I'll always respond that way?” he countered.

“You'd tell me, wouldn't you? If he was planning something bad?” Tate asked in a quiet voice. Sanders' eyes finally met hers.

“Of course I would,” he assured her, his voice very serious. She smiled and reached out, squeezed his arm.

“And what will it take to convince you to move home for good? I miss you,” she decided to change the subject.

“And I miss you, as well. But you know it's not that simple,” he replied. She snorted.

“It is. There's plenty of -,”

“Sanders!”

Jameson had a voice that could carry when he wanted it to, so there was no mistaking who was calling. Sanders gave a tight-lipped smile to Tate before making his way across the room. She watched as Jameson laughed, clapped Sanders on the back. Introduced him around.

This is so fucking boring.

Tate groaned and pushed away from the wall. A glance at her watch told her it was only five in the afternoon. The party would go on for a while, but she was over it already. She wound her way through people, smiling politely at everyone. When she finally got to the other side of the room, she slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her.

Her phone was at one end of the dresser, plugged in and charging. She could see the notification light blinking on it, so she made her way over. Turned on the screen. It was from Rusty, her old roommate. Tate laughed as she scrolled through pictures of the other girl at a bachelorette party in Vegas. Tate had been invited to the same party, but had turned it down because she'd thought she would be busy with the bar. Turned out she was busy on the other side of the world.

Well, not technically busy.

Tate didn't know how long they texted back and forth. Long enough that she made herself comfortable, bending over the dresser and resting her elbows on top of it. She told Rusty all about her own trip, about Jameson dragging her from one odd incident to the next. Rusty and Jameson had met, several times, but the other woman had always been a little afraid of him. So Tate sent some embarrassing photos of him, hoping to humanize him a little.

“What are you doing?”

Tate glanced up to see Jameson standing in the doorway, his hand still gripping the knob.

“Talking to Rusty,” she explained, going back to her phone.

“There's a party out here, you know,” he pointed out. She nodded.

“I know.”

“Full of people.”

“Yes.”

“In person, that you can talk to.”

“Got it.”

“Tatum. Get the fuck off your phone and get out here.”

“No thanks.”

She heard the door shut, and then he was walking towards her.

“I wasn't asking, Tate,” he warned her.

“I'm just really not in the mood, Jameson. I swear. Have your party, I'll just hang out in here. You can wake me when everyone goes,” Tate offered, finally looking at him again. He had moved to lean against the dresser right next to her.

“I thought you liked parties,” he said in a soft voice. She chuckled.

“I like my kinds of parties. This is people chatting and smiling and trying to guess how much everyone is worth. What no one seems to realize is none of them are as rich as you, so the rest doesn't matter. Boring. They don't even notice if I'm there or not,” she told him.

“I notice, and that's all that matters,” he corrected her. She snorted.

“I'm too tired to argue with you. Go to your party, flirt with your Brazilian, it'll be over before you know it,” she instructed him. He moved to stand behind her.

“I'm sensing a little jealousy,” he replied, then she felt his hand on her back. He slowly ran his fingers down her spine.

“Not jealous. Maybe a little annoyed, but not jealous.”

His hand kept moving, sliding over the material of her tight pencil skirt, smoothing over her ass.

“And attitude, I'm sensing lots of attitude. I don't care for that,” he said.

His voice was getting hard, the pressure from his hand heavier. Tate stopped looking at her phone and without turning, tried to see if she could spot him from the corner of her eye. But he was completely out of her vision.