“What happened?” his voice was low and threatening.

“I don't know. Mr. Hollingsworth wouldn't say – just said that when she first got here, there was an understanding between her and Mr. Castille that she was not coming here to be his girlfriend. Something happened two weeks ago to change that,” Sanders told him.

“What are you telling me!? She's already his girlfriend!?” he snapped, disdain dripping from that word that he hated.

“I don't know. I think so,” Sanders said slowly.

“Goddammit!” Jameson yelled, and he stomped across the room. Grabbed a plastic bag that was sitting near the door. “So when the fuck is this momentous fucking occasion happening!?”

“They're in a conference room downstairs. Mr. Hollingsworth said they're going to be talking about it over dinner. Which was served, twenty minutes ago,” Sanders told him. Jameson groaned.

“Goddamn Tatum, always making me do things I don't want to fucking do,” he growled, and hurried out the door.

Tatum stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked good. She had on a heavy red lipstick. Light eyeliner. Her hair was down, but in soft waves. It had grown pretty long – she wondered if the sun had positive effects on it. It curled down almost past her breasts. When she swished it over her shoulder, she could feel it against her bare back.

She was wearing the dress Jameson had bought for her, the one she had worn to her parents' house. It was the only nice one she had brought with her to Arizona. It felt strange wearing it again.

It felt even stranger knowing Jameson was upstairs. He had been so different. Staring at her, so calm. Not angry. Not demanding. Almost laughing. Flirting. He hadn't run away. He hadn't dragged her down to hell. He had wanted to ..., just talk.

She couldn't handle it. She felt like she was going to throw up. When Nick had met her at her hotel room, he had kissed her thoroughly, and that made her feel like she was going to throw up, too. She had hurried out of the hotel room ahead of him, laughing nervously. He thought he made her giddy. He had no idea it was Jameson making her giddy.

She'd made it through the meet and greet. Managed to laugh. What had Jameson said once? She could be cordial. She could be fucking polite. She had been raised in polite society, after all; she was good at faking it.

As Nick could tell anyo-, SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

When dinner was served, though, she didn't have the protection of the crowd. Of other people. Nick sat close to her, rested his hand on her thigh as food was brought out. As they tucked into their dinners, he started bringing up how glad he was that she was there. How happy she made him. How much easier it would be if ...,

She had jumped out of her seat. Practically out of her skin. This was the moment Tate had been waiting for, for him to ask her to move in with him. But now that it was there, she couldn't handle it. She laughed and asked where the bathroom was, and one of the players' wives pointed her in the right direction. She then spent ten minutes on a toilet seat, her head between her knees. When she felt like she wasn't going to pass out, she finally made her way to the sinks. Patted her cheeks with cold water.

What the fuck is wrong with you? You leave a path of destruction. Not Jameson. You. You are the devil.

She took a deep breath. If she could just get through dinner. Get through the next couple hours. Jameson would fade away, when he saw that she was serious about her wants and demands. He would never give them to her, she just had to be strong.

Even if that meant doing something she really didn't want to do.

She took another deep breath, then squared her shoulders. Looked herself over, and didn't find herself wanting for anything. She walked out of the bathroom. She was holding herself so stiffly, she had a very distinct impression of how Sanders probably felt when he walked around. Roughly like she had a stick shoved up her ass. She tried to ignore everyone, the hum of the people in the hall, the din in the lobby, the sound of someone calling her name.

Huh?

Tate turned around and was shocked to see Jameson practically barreling through people. He was hurrying away from the bank of elevators, shouting her name. She was stunned into a standstill. He finally caught up to her, grabbed her by the shoulders.

“What are you doing? Are you drunk!?” she exclaimed, her eyes sweeping over him.

Her mind was blown. He was wearing a baseball hat. A hat. Crazier than him wearing sandals in Marbella. Was he trying to be incognito? She almost hadn't recognized him. He was wearing a plain grey t-shirt and jeans, and no shoes. A plastic grocery bag swung from his wrist.

He's gone crazy.

“No. What the fuck do you think you're doing!?” he demanded. It was weird, instead of hiding his eyes, the bill of the hat almost amplified them. Like a telescope, focusing all of her vision onto his blue, blue eyes.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“You can't be with him, Tate. You're a part of me, you belong with me,” Jameson all but shouted. She was stunned.

“What has gotten into you?” she hissed, shrugging out of his hold. She grabbed his bicep and yanked him out of the flow of people, to the inside of a hall.

“You. Don't do this. Don't go be with somebody, some guy, just to not be with me,” he growled. She rolled her eyes.

“He's not some guy, and he likes me, Jameson! Really likes me!” she snapped at him.

“I really like you! Why aren't I good enough?” he asked. She groaned.