At night, Tate thought about Jameson. He hadn't tried to contact her at all. She wondered what he was doing. Who he was doing. He had been very upset when she had left. It shocked her a little. His face. Breaking the window. Bleeding. He had been angry. He had been upset. And, if she was completely honest with herself, he had been hurt. She wouldn't have thought it possible. When she had told him it was all a lie, wanting to be with him, loving him, he had looked ready to commit murder.

So, in Jameson-speak, his feelings were hurt.

Selfish. He wanted her to love him. He wanted her to live and breathe for him, but he would never return the favor. Tate didn't want that anymore. She wanted someone to live and breathe for her. Someone to begin and end with her. Fuck real pearls. She deserved love. He would never understand that. He could throw all the sex and money he wanted at her, but he could never give her what she really wanted.

Sometimes, it almost didn't sound like settling, giving into Nick. He was halfway to loving her, anyway.

Two weeks later, those thoughts were still in Tatum's head. Something had to give. She wanted to claw her face off. She was having dinner with Nick, zoning out. She hadn't spoken to Sanders or Ang in a couple days. She felt like a life line of sorts had been cut. She figured she should get used to it, if she wanted to start life over. She sighed and turned her attention back towards Nick.

“... but then Chet said he wants to drive over to San Diego, pick up some – hey!” he stopped, smiling at something behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. A small boy was being pushed towards them, a very eager looking father behind him.

“Go ahead, Hank. Tell him,” the dad whispered. The little boy held out a pad and paper.

“Mr. Castille ..., I really loved your double-play ..., in the last world series,” the boy said softly. Nick smiled and leaned down, ruffling the kid's hair.

“Thanks. It wasn't easy,” he laughed. The kid held out the paper.

“Could I have your autograph?” he asked. Nick nodded.

As he signed the piece of paper, the dad began to blabber on and on. They were from Worcester, Massachusetts, and were huge Red Sox fans. Had been to every home game, loved the pitcher. Loved the team. Were so happy have run into him. Nick went along with it for a while, and then finally leaned back in his chair.

“Look, I'm really flattered, but I'm trying to have dinner with my lady friend,” he explained, gesturing to Tate. She smiled down at the little boy.

“Sorry. Your girlfriend is really pretty,” he whispered loudly. Nick laughed again.

“Thanks. But she's not my girlfriend. You should put in a good word for me,” Nick stage whispered back, winking at Tate. She laughed and the little boy turned towards her.

“You should like Mr. Castille. He's real good at basbeall, so he'd probably be a good boyfriend,” he assured her. Tate leaned down.

“Oh really? So being good at baseball is what makes a guy a good boyfriend?” she clarified.

“Sure. It's pretty much the best thing ever!” the kid exclaimed.

Everyone laughed at that, and the dad lead the kid away. Tate and Nick finished their meal, the mood lightened a little. The little scene had been pretty adorable. They walked back to her hotel after that, laughing about the kid.

“He's right, though,” Nick started as they wandered into the lobby.

“About what?” Tate asked, digging around for her key.

“Being a baseball player does make me pretty good boyfriend material,” he said. She glanced at him.

He had been very good about not mentioning his feelings for her. She had been in Arizona almost three weeks, and they had spent many days together, and he hadn't hit on her. Hadn't tried to touch her, or be inappropriate with her, or anything. She sighed.

“And why is that, Mr. Castille?” Tate asked, turning to face him once they had gotten on the elevator.

“Well, I'm good at working in a team. I'm strong. I make a lot of money. Some people say I'm nice, and a lot of people tell me I'm good looking,” Nick laughed. She laughed as well.

“All good things, I'm sure. I just don't know if those are things I want,” she told him.

“What does Tatum O'Shea want?” he asked. She chewed on her lip.

“I don't know, most of the time. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will.”

“Then how can you be so positive you don't want me?” he pointed out, and the elevator came to a stop. They got out on her floor.

“Nick ..., okay. So we date. We have sex. We go out on lots of dates. And I still feel the same way. What then? I lose another friend?” she pointed out.

“I'm not that weak, Tate. You're stuck with me. I'm not gonna hate you, just because you don't like me. I'm just asking for a chance to change your mind,” he explained. She snorted.

“You say that now, but most men wouldn't be so okay with it after the fact. 'So how was that, baby?', 'Good, but I was picturing the last guy who fucked me, the whole time,' - you okay with that?” Tate asked bluntly. Nick stepped up close to her, pressing her into her door.

“No. But I am very confident in my abilities to make you forget him,” he said softly. She sighed, looking up at him.

“No offense, Nick, but I'm not,” she whispered.

He leaned down and kissed her. She didn't want to, but she kissed him back. She had to do something. Sever a tie. Cut her losses. She was already heading in this direction – at least she had warned Nick that she most likely wouldn't like him. That she wouldn't be thinking of him. Because she certainly wasn't right at that moment