*
Paris had not ended well, for any of them. Sometime between storming out of Ang's hotel room and Jameson holding her, Tate had changed. A slight shift to the left. Or backwards. He couldn't quite tell. Either direction, it had been enough to throw him completely off guard, and he still felt like he hadn't gotten back on his feet yet.
She was mad at Ang. She felt betrayed by Ang. She was hurt that he had kept his relationship with Ellie a secret, and she was pissed that he had a relationship with her sister, period. Ellie and Tate had never exactly been friends. Ang was sleeping with a sworn enemy of sorts. It didn't matter that Ellie and Tate had made peace – it still wasn't okay, in Tate's eyes.
She didn't want to stay in Paris. Jameson wasn't surprised. She didn't want to stay in Europe at all. That surprised him – he had figured they would at least head back to Marbella, but she wanted to go home, back to Boston. He reminded her that he still had two weeks left in their little game. Two weeks to convince her to stay with him. She had informed him that it wasn't necessary. She wanted him to come home with her.
He was absolutely fu-cking shocked.
It was too easy. Jameson knew that – Tate loved to rail against him. She never caved to anything easily, and she never gave up when it came to their little games. He couldn't figure out her angle. But since it worked so well in his favor, he acquiesced to her demands. He chartered a plane, and two days later, they flew out of Paris. On his birthday.
Happy fu-cking birthday.
Sanders wasn't very much help, either. It was like they were conspiring against him. Jameson knew Tate didn't believe him when he said he hadn't known that Ang was bringing Ellie. But he wasn't positive Sanders believed him, either, and that was a problem. Tatum trusted anything that came out of Sanders' mouth. Neither of them were speaking about it to him, though, and once again – she was still sleeping with Jameson at night, still pretending like everything was okay between them, so he didn't have incentive to make a fuss over it or to even really care.
Except you do care. You care so much, you can't even see your way around her anymore.
She didn't talk to Ang or Ellie during their remaining days in Paris, but on the plane ride home, there was a very tearful reunion of sorts. Ang tried to apologize, and Tate accepted, crying the whole time. Ellie cried and apologized, and Tate cried some more. Ang even shed a few tears. There were so many goddamn tears, Jameson thought he was gonna drown before they could even get back to America.
But despite the tears, there was something that rang ... false, about the whole scene. He couldn't put his finger on it. Tate had been so angry, and then to just be ... over it? And not just over it, but smiling and laughing like she hadn't been mad at all. Like she had never been mad in her whole life. Highly suspicious.
Technically, she didn't have a place to live in Boston anymore. Before going to Europe, she had been staying with her “friend”, the first baseman for the Boston Red Sox, Nick Castille. Jameson vetoed that idea before she could even say anything. She couldn't move back in with her old roommate, Rusty – the girl had found a new roommate. She didn't want to live with her sister, and Jameson didn't want her living with Ang.
He informed her that she would living with him, in a condo he had recently purchased in the financial district. Jameson had braced himself for an argument, was prepared to drag her there, kicking and screaming, but it wasn't necessary. Tate had simply agreed. He kept waiting for her to argue, to kick up a fight, but the moment they got there, she simply wheeled all her luggage into his room, demanded to know which part of the walk-in closet would be hers.
Something is most definitely fu-cking wrong with this woman.
He wanted to shake her. Ask her what the fu-ck was going on, what her silly little game was, now. But it was hard. He didn't want to slip back into having to fight for every smile from her. He had worked so hard to get back to a good place with her, and in their own kind of fu-cked up way, things were really good.
After picking out her section of the closet, Tate had pressed him against a wall and gone down on him, all while Ang and Ellie were sitting in the living room, oohing and aahing over his designer furniture. For the next two weeks, it was like old times between them. She had no qualms about fu-cking his brains out, anywhere and everywhere. As dirty and filthy as he could dish it out.
So who was he to ask her to snap the fu-ck out of it? If this was all a game, it was one he liked, very much.