That’s when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Tate stands up, saying something to his family. As he turns, his eyes land on us.
A shadow instantly eclipses Tate’s relaxed expression. The smile fades, replaced by shock.
Our eyes tangle across the restaurant. But it’s long enough for me to see the questions forming. Long enough for me to realize how this must look.
He heads toward the back of the restaurant, his spine rigid.
“I’ll be back,” I say, standing.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Morrison asks.
“Bathroom.”
“Sit down. We’re not done.”
“We are done.” I drop my napkin on the table. “This meeting’s over.”
I’m tired of being his fucking marionette. Sick of him reminding me over and over how he’s the one pulling the strings, how he’s the one who can cut them at any time if he doesn’t think I’m cooperating.
Screw him.
Right now, all I care about is getting to Tate.
Because I know exactly what he’s thinking. I know how this looks. And I know that every step he takes away from that table is another step farther away from any chance we might have had.
The question is whether I can catch him before he disappears.
Or whether I’ve already fucked this whole thing up beyond repair.
THIRTEEN
tate
What the actualfuck?
I stalk toward the back of the restaurant, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, chest tight with rage.
This is Vegas all over again. Getting close to someone, letting my guard down, thinking maybe this time will be different. Then finding out I’m just another mark. Another easy target for someone who knows exactly which buttons to push.
The hallway leading to the bathrooms is empty, thank fuck. I need a minute to get my shit together before I go back to my family and pretend everything’s fine. Pretend I didn’t just watch the man I’ve been falling for have dinner with someone else like I don’t exist. Like what happened was just a figment of my imagination.
I slam through the door to the men’s room and grip the sides of the sink.
Who the fuck was Zane having dinner with?
I push away from the sink and pace the small space, fisting my hair.
“I’m surprised he didn’t climb into Zane’s lap, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
My blood burns when the image of Zane’s head bent close to his, the word ‘date’ flashing before my eyes.
Jesus Christ, when am I going to learn that the guy is a fucking liar? He played me in Vegas, played me during that one-on-one session. How many more times am I gonna bend over for him before I learn my lesson?
I slam a fist into the wall. Zane, looking relaxed and comfortable with another man in a way he’s never looked with me. Sharing wine and intimate conversation while I was sitting with my family, thinking about this afternoon’s practice. About how close we came to kissing. About how for forty minutes on that ice, I thought maybe...
Fucking idiot.
I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. Same fucking story, different day. When am I gonna realize that guys like Zane don’t want guys like me? That whatever I thought was happening was just in my head?
