Hmmm, if that's not marriage material, I don't know what is.

It was ridiculous. They couldn't go two minutes without fighting. They had probably been “together” for a grand total of ... two months? Three months? What was she saying, she wanted him to propose? Jameson fucking hated titles, he refused to even think of her as his girlfriend. She was just Tatum. He was just Jameson. Why couldn't that be enough!?

As it got later, he had to get out of the hotel. Knowing she was downstairs, probably looking sexy as fuck, and hanging on some other guy's arm .., he couldn't handle it. Not even a little bit. He felt like he was going to kill someone. Most likely a baseball player.

Maybe Sanders, as well. Just for dragging him there.

He strolled down the street, walked a couple blocks. There were lots of restaurants and pubs, little shops full of stupid shit that no one ever needs. They were basically in U of A's backyard. He would never have choosen to stay in a hotel like that; he had wanted to stay somewhere else. Sanders insisted it would be easier. Jameson caved.

Only for you, Tatum.

She had acted strange. He was nervous. Scared. She hadn't been as angry as he would've liked. Anger meant she cared. Sure, she'd gotten mad. But in Spain, she had fought against him, almost killed him. That was passion, in his mind. In that hotel room, she had looked ..., detached. That was the worst.

Sanders had said to work out how he felt, and what he was going say. Well, he felt like he wanted to be with Tatum, for as long as possible. For as long as both of them could stand. He wanted to tell her things, things he had never said to anyone ever before, but she wouldn't listen. He had to find another way to talk to her. A way she would hear him.

He didn't see the store on his way up the street, but after he'd wandered for about twenty minutes and then made his way back, he noticed it. Stared in the window. So much silver and gold glittered back at him. Jameson was accustomed to nice things, had been his whole life. He didn't see anything wrong with buying them if he could afford them. Tatum always thought he was trying to buy her – she never realized, it was just his way. He bought nice things for Sanders, because he wanted to do nice things. He bought nice things for her, because that was the way he showed that he cared.

She couldn't just let him be him. She was always trying to twist him into her stupid fairy tale Prince Charming. It seemed to him that his choices were to either walk away, or wear the crown.

He frowned and pushed his way into the little shop. Several young women looked up at his entrance. Perked up. They were all young, maybe early twenties. Or younger. Babies. He ignored their smiles – he could eat them for breakfast, and still be hungry. No, he was on a mission for one last meal.

She broke the last necklace. She will not break this one.

Jameson felt better when he got back to his hotel room. He ignored all the rabble downstairs, the crowds of people everywhere. He took a long shower, almost forty-five minutes. Laughed to himself as he stood under the spray. Tatum always made fun of how long he spent in the shower. He had never really thought about it before – he just liked to be warm. That's why he liked his fireplace. That's why he liked her.

He changed into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. His hair had reached ridiculous lengths, and when it was wet, it curled down his forehead, almost into his eyes. He grabbed a U of A hat that had come with the room, shoved it on his head. Made a drink, stood in front of the windows and looked out over the city. He almost felt at peace. So he was actually waiting for the interruption. It came on cue.

“You have to stop her!” Sanders shouted, bursting through the door. Jameson closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath.

“Life was so much simpler before her,” he sighed. Sanders stomped across the room.

“Excuse me?” he asked. Jameson finally looked at him.

“Nothing. What's wrong now? What do I have to do for her now?” Jameson asked.

“Mr. Hollingsworth called me. He talked to her earlier today,” Sanders said quickly.

“Yes. So did I.”

“You did!?”

“Yes.”

“When? What did she say? Is she here?” Sanders asked, glancing around the hotel room.

Sweet Sanders, always believing in that happily ever after.

“No. I bumped into her on the elevator. We talked. She is not happy. She wants all sorts of fairy tale promises, and she doesn't think I can give them to her,” Jameson explained.

“Can you?”

“I'm not sure. I'm not that kind of man, Sanders. I never asked her to change,” Jameson pointed out.

“No. But you will change, for her.”

“Probably.”

“Well,” Sanders took a deep breath, “you should probably start, right now.”

“Why? Where's the fire?” Jameson asked.

“Downstairs.”

“Excuse me?”

“She is downstairs, with Mr. Castille, at some event,” Sanders clarified. Jameson rolled his eyes.

“I know this, Sanders. I told you, I saw -,”

“He is going to ask her to live with him,” Sanders stressed. Jameson frowned.

“Well, she can't live in a hotel forever, I'm sure there will be time to -,”

“As his girlfriend. And she is going to say yes,” Sanders hissed. Jameson's eyebrows shot up.

“How do you know this? How can you be sure?” he demanded.

“She told Mr. Hollingsworth. Mr. Castille has been asking her for a while. Something happened a couple weeks ago. He has been trying to get her to move in with him ever since,” Sanders said. Jameson glared.