And Jameson. Jesus, if he even knew how far it had gone right then, he would've been pissed. If she'd actually gone through with it? Slept with Ang? God. He would hate her. Ellie would hate her. And Ang would hate her, as soon as he found out it was all on purpose. Most of the time, it all sounded like a great idea.

But sometimes, when she was alone, and she couldn't stop the crying, it just sounded like she was the worst person she'd ever met.

Well, next to Jameson ...

Tate stood in the doorway a couple days later, watching as Sanders unloaded the car. Jameson was sitting in the backseat, talking on his cell phone. She smiled and held out her arms when Sanders finally made his way up to the porch.

“What did you do?” he demanded, and she laughed.

“What? What!? I'm alive, I didn't kill any of your plants, and I cleaned up the meatball explosion in the kitchen,” she defended herself.

“I had this strange feeling while we were gone, and you sounded odd whenever I called,” he said, looking her over.

“No, nothing strange here. Just bored most of the time,” she replied. Jameson finally got out of the car and strode up onto the porch. Sanders gave her one more Look, and then headed inside.

“God, what a fucking nightmare. Sanders was ridiculous, he worried about you the whole time,” Jameson grumbled, pushing his way past her. She shut the door after everyone was inside.

“Sweet to know someone worried about me,” she laughed, following him up the stairs. Sanders left Jameson's luggage in front of his room, then headed back downstairs.

“If I wasted my time worrying about you, I would never get anything done,” he responded, pulling his tie off and walking to the edge of the bed. Tate kicked the door shut behind her.

“See. Sweetness. You're just full of it,” she teased. He glanced at her while he slid his jacket off, let it fall onto the bed.

“You're in an awfully good mood,” he said suspiciously, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves. Tate shrugged.

“I spent a week alone. It was quiet. Peaceful. Nice. I didn't have to listen to you bitch the whole time,” she taunted him, smiling as she said it. He narrowed his eyes, then walked past her into the closet.

“Starting awfully early, baby girl. At least let me -, what is this? Why is this on the floor?” Jameson asked. Tate held her breath and crept to the door into the closet. The blazer Ang had worn was crumpled up on the floor, where he had left it. Tate had never picked it up.

“What?” she asked, feigning ignorance. He picked the blazer up and shook it out.

“Why is this on the floor?” he asked, holding it up. He made a face. “Jesus, is that weed? Were you getting stoned in my jacket?”

“Oh, no. Ang was over, and we -,” she started to explain, as if it were an every day occurrence. Jameson turned towards her, his eyes wide.

“Angier was here? In my house?” he asked.

“Yeah, I invited him over one night. We were bored, I gave him a tour. Thought it would be funny for him to try on the jacket,” she explained. His eyes got wider.

“You let him wear my clothing?” Jameson sounded shocked. She had blown his mind. Jameson was very sensitive about his things.

“Yeah. It looked good on him, though he's a lot taller,” she said, looking down and picking at her nails. Jameson walked over to her, his movements slow and deliberate.

“You brought Angier to my house, let him wear my clothing, and then you proceeded to get high,” he laid everything out. She glanced at him and nodded before going back to her nails. She couldn't look at him for too long. His eyes were blazing, and it was always a look that set her skin on edge. Made her itch to be touched. Hurt.

“Yeah, in the sun room,” she finished.

“You smoked in my room,” his voice was soft. She had trouble hiding her smile.

“Well, not in in your room, we were -,” she started.

He grabbed her by the throat and she went onto her toes, her fingers flying to his hand. He stared down his nose at her, and he looked equal parts pissed-the-fuck-off and really turned on. It was an odd look, one that she had only ever seen on Jameson. A look that made her heart rate double.

“What's your game, baby girl? You knew all those things would make me very unhappy, so why did you do them?” he asked, his voice still soft. Tate sighed.

“We were having fun. Maybe, just maybe for ten minutes, I wasn't thinking about you, Jameson,” she replied. His fingers got tighter and he walked her backwards, out of the closet.

“Doubtful. Fun, huh. What else did you do?” he asked, backing her up to the side of the bed.

“Hard to remember. Gets a little fuzzy after the joint,” she replied. He stepped up so he was almost touching her.

“A little fuzzy, hmmm. Tatum, you're being far too obvious to have actually fucked him, so you can stop trying to make me jealous. I'm not jealous. I'm angry,” he growled through clenched teeth. She flicked her eyes to the bed, then back to him.

“You're so sure? You're positive?” she whispered. His gaze went to where she had just looked and then came back to hers. He cocked his head to the side.

“Positive enough. Why are you trying to make me mad? What has gotten into you?” he asked, and she managed to squeak out a laugh.

“I think the question should be who.”

He shoved her and she fell onto the mattress. She tried to scramble backwards, but he grabbed her ankle and pulled her back into place before he crawled on top of her. He straddled her thighs and sat back on his heels, working the buttons of his shirt open.