“Maybe, but that doesn't change the fact that Ellie is still better in most peoples eyes,” she replied, fiddling with the stem of her champagne glass. Jameson leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

“I wouldn't say that. From a technical stand point, if we're being completely honest, I would have to say that you're much sexier than your sister,” he told her.

She didn't breathe for a moment. Did Jameson Kane really just say that to her? Or was it the champagne? She glanced at him, and he was staring right back at her, a small smile playing on his lips. She shook her head and shook off her nerves. No. He was just being nice. That had to be it – what kind of a guy would tell his girlfriend's sister that she was the sexier of the two? Not a very good guy, that's for sure.

“Whatever. It'll all be behind me in a couple weeks. It'll be like a new Tate, that's what I'm going for; Ellie can suck it,” Tate proclaimed, and then hiccuped. Jameson burst out laughing.

“See, now that's funny. Your sister sucking something – would never happen,” he joked. Tate could feel her cheeks turning bright red.

“Gross,” she blurted out.

“Too much? I guess we're not that good of buddies yet,” he laughed.

“You shouldn't talk that way about your girlfriend, it's not very nice,” Tate told him. He shrugged.

“Sometimes she's not a very nice girlfriend,” he replied. Tate's eyes got wide as she had a realization.

“Are you going to dump my sister!?”

“Now, why would you ask that?” Jameson responded, his smile gone as his eyes stared in to her own.

“I don't know. Your voice, your attitude. Are you?” she pressed. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I shouldn't have given you champagne. I didn't know you'd turn in to Nancy Drew,” he commented.

“Oh my god. You're going to dump Ellie. You've been together for two years. She thinks you're gonna propose. She's gonna die,” Tate gushed, pressing a hand to her chest. His eyes narrowed.

“We haven't even talked about marriage, why would she think that? And I don't know what's going to happen with me and Ellie, we've got a lot to talk about; do not talk to her about this,” Jameson commanded, pointing a finger at Tate. She raised her hands.

“I go out of my way to not talk to her, I won't breathe a word. But can I ask why?” Tate pressed, reaching out for the champagne. Jameson didn't even notice, he was so lost in thought, so she poured herself another glass.

“I don't know. It's ..., boring. Not exciting. Like you were saying about Drew. She wants this pre-programmed life, has everything decided for us. She knows what she's having for dinner next Tuesday, where we're going for the fourth of July, what we'll name our first child. She goes to bed at ten, gets up at six – I'm not allowed to touch her between those hours, I'm not even joking. I don't like being told what to do,” his voice got quiet towards the end. Tate nodded, taking a large swig of her champagne.

“Sounds like Ellie. Do you know, one time when she was mad at me, to get back at me, she got in to my room and organized my closet? That was her idea of revenge,” Tate told him.

He burst out laughing, and that set Tate off. They both bent over, unable to breathe for how much they were laughing. It was hilarious, and it was totally true. Ellie was like OCD Barbie. Very pretty, and a little crazy.

“Oh my god, that sounds like her,” he chuckled. Tate nodded.

“I know! I've got a hundred more, she -,” Tate started, but she was gesturing with her glass, and champagne sloshed all over her front.

“Oh jesus, I knew this was going to happen,” Jameson shook his head, but he was laughing. Tate snorted, holding her wet shirt away from her chest.

“Then you shouldn't have given it to me,” she replied. He stood up.

“I tried to take it away. C'mon, I'm sure Ellie has something you can wear,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him. She got out of her chair.

“Oh no, she'll kill me, I'm not allowed to wear her stuff,” Tate told him, following him across the living room and back in to the bedroom.

“Who cares? She owns so much shit, she'll never know. Just grab something, her stuff is in there,” he explained, pointing to a section of the wardrobe before walking back out of the room.

Tate stared in to the wardrobe for a while, letting her eyes wander over the clothes. Everything Ellie owned was expensive; from a designer. From a young age, Tate had been taught not to touch. Jameson had just given her free reign. She snorted and dove in, yanking back the hangers. She laughed and pulled down a silk blouse – it looked ridiculously expensive.

Perfect.

She spun around and threw the shirt on the bed, stumbling as she did so. She didn't think she was drunk, but she was feeling a little light. Spinny. She laughed to herself, curling her fingers around the hem of her shirt and pulling the wet material up. She went to yank it over her head, but something happened. The shirt's tag got caught in a string of pearls she was wearing, which then got tangled in her hair, and she was stuck with her arms in the air, struggling to pull the shirt one way or the other.

“Oh my god,” Tate laughed, stepping back and forth.

She lost her footing and stumbled clear across the room. She rammed in to something, a dresser, and moved so her butt was against it. She was really laughing now, struggling not to hyperventilate with the shirt covering her mouth. Her elbows were pinned above her head and she tried to reach the back of her neck with her fingers, arching her back. Her fingernails were just brushing the top of her spine when she heard something.