Stupid sentimentality. Stupid heart. It made him sick. Monogamy!? And while he was drunk, hadn't he admitted to her being the perfect girlfriend for him? What the shit was that!? Instead of infecting her with his dark needs and wants, she had cured him and turned him into a kitten at her feet, into a love drunk fool. Love sick fool.

Fuck me.

“Tatum,” Jameson barked out, sidling up next to her. She glanced up at him.

“You've been gone a while. This is Tracy. Tracy, this is Jameson Kane, he owns the boat,” Tate introduced him to the woman she had been talking to. He nodded, and the busty blonde smiled enthusiastically.

“Oh, I know who you are, I just can't believe I'm here. Fabulous boat, Mr. Kane, I've admired it for quite a while,” Tracy bubbled, stepping right up to him, completely cutting Tatum out of the conversation. Tate started to laugh.

“Fantastic. Tate, a word,” he growled, then he dragged her inside.

“I wondered how long you were going to last,” she snicked while he shoved her into the galley.

“Is this some sort of fucking game?” Jameson demanded.

“Ooohhh, we haven't really played a game, a real game, in a long time. Sounds fun,” she laughed. He narrowed his eyes. Something was off. She had been weird ever since the day before, when he had found her crying. She was talking like her old self more than ever before, but almost in an odd, rehearsed way. Like she was forcing it.

“I don't want to play games with you,” he said.

“All you know how to do is play games,” Tate countered. He folded his arms across his chest.

“What the fuck is your problem? Is there something you're not telling me?” he asked. Her eyes slid away, glancing out at the party.

“No,” she said softly.

“Liar. Something is going on in that brain of yours. That usually doesn't bode well for me. If you're pissed off at me, tell me, so I can apologize for whatever stupid shit you're upset about now,” he snapped. Her eyes locked back onto his.

Looks like she's not the only one slipping into old habits.

“That wasn't very polite,” she said in a cool voice.

“I'm not a very polite man. Look, Tatum, whatever weird shit you have going on in your head, just let it out. This party, the shower the other day – something is going on with you. I can't apologize, and I can't make it right, if you don't tell me,” Jameson stressed. She laughed.

“You? Apologize?” she cackled. He stepped up close to her, forcing her back against the cupboards.

“I have apologized to you every fucking day. Me bringing you here is an apology. I don't know how else to say it, to show it. What the fuck do you want? A goddamn sky-writer? I'll hire one. Whatever it takes, just tell me. I'm sorry, Tate. For everything. More than words can express. Now either accept it, or get the fuck over it,” he demanded.

He was sorry. That night had been a very enlightening experience. Jameson wanted to hold Tate down and slap her around and call her mean names, but he never wanted to hurt her, ever again. Seeing Tatum in that hospital bed, seeing how close he had come to losing her …, well, they were clichés because they were the truth – he hadn't known what he'd had, till it was gone. He couldn't bear the thought of her being gone for good. She had to understand that, somehow.

She has to understand that.

Tate was silent for a long time, her eyes wide as she stared up at him. For a moment Jameson thought he had won. Thought maybe, just maybe, brutal honesty had done what flirting and sex and games hadn't been able to do. But then something different welled up in her eyes. Not emotion, not resistance, something …, different. She stood on her tip toes, leaned even closer to him.

“There's a tone of voice I haven't heard in a while,” she purred. He cocked up an eyebrow.

Ah, distracting me. Haven't quite won her over yet, I guess.

“If you want me to get nasty with you, Tate, then it can be arranged,” he told her. She laughed.

“You've had a week to be nasty to me. Haven't seen it happen yet.”

“Because I've been trying to be nice,” Jameson reminded her. She snorted.

“Really? Seems like your version of 'nice' is most peoples 'dickead', mixed with a little boring,” she taunted him.

“It's as nice as you're ever gonna get from me,” he warned her. She rolled her eyes.

“I don't want nice. I want you,” she stated.

He wasn't sure who was more shocked by her words, Tate, or himself. She obviously hadn't planned on blurting that out. It was the first real kind of statement she had made regarding any sort of way she felt about him. It wasn't much, but it was something.

It was like her words set fire to his blood, and Jameson didn't even think, just grabbed her by the arm and propelled her down the hall. He shoved her through the first door they came across, a sliding door that hid a water closet – just a toilet and a small counter with a mirror. A tiny counter top. There was barely enough room, but he pushed Tate in ahead of him and then slid the door shut behind them.

“What's your fucking problem today?” he growled, grabbing her hips and shoving her up onto the counter.

“You,” she snapped back, pulling at his shirt. He yanked it over his head.

“If you wanted me to fuck you, you could've just asked. You didn't need to throw a goddamn party,” he told her, pushing her short skirt up and out of the way before pulling her underwear down her legs.