“Tate,” I hiss. “What are you doing here?”
I’m torn over how to react. Tate is a huge country music star, worth millions, and I’ve just threatened his record label with a lawsuit. Most would cower at the sight of him, but I know Tate. He’s kind, funny, and for most of his life, he’s loved my best friend ferociously.
“I’m misbehavin’.” He throws me a cocky grin before his eyes lower to my belly. “You’re pregnant?”
I rub my bump, ignoring another spell of tightening. “Guilty.”
A sadness passes over his face. “Well, it suits you. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” We stand rigidly across from each other. “Seriously though, are you allowed to be in here?”
He smirks. “No ma’am, but when has that ever stopped me? I wanted to see you and make sure the lawyers didn’t screw you over.”
I forgot Steven was here until he interjects. “Um, I understand you’re friends, but you really shouldn’t be discussing the agreement.”
Tate raises his hands. “Understood. I’ll refrain from any legal talk if you could give us the room for a second?”
Steven cuts me a glance.
“It’s fine. I’ll meet you outside.”
When we’re alone, Tate’s buoyant veneer slips away. He whips off his hat and clutches it to his chest. “Okay, I lied, but I needed to say how fucking sorry I am.”
“Tate, it really?—”
“I never trusted Peter. He gave half the women here the ick, and something about him never sat right with me when they hired him.” He paces across the carpet, hands bouncing infront of him as he rambles. This is the Tate I know. “Had I known it was your song, I would’ve?—”
“Tate!” I snatch him by the arm. He pauses, peering down at me. “This is not your fault. Peter was and is a massive prick.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens, and he slumps in relief. I can picture how badly he’s been tearing himself up over this.
“How is she?” he whispers.
And there it is.
Tate was never going to let the opportunity pass to ask about Talia. His voice lacks all emotion now, and he completely deflates from my lack of response.
“Give me something, Harry. Please.” He bends the edges of his hat anxiously. “I miss her something fierce.”
His reaction is…odd. This doesn’t sound like the plea of a man ready to sign divorce papers anytime soon.
The urge to hug him is powerful. “You know I can’t, Tate. I’m sorry.”
He nods slowly and places his hat back on his head, brim lowered to hide the sorrow slashing across his face.
My heart cracks.
Then, something sharp twinges in my back.
I hiss loudly and slap a hand to my side. “Ow, fuck.”
Tate’s eyes widen as he steadies me with a gentle hand on my forearm. “You okay?”
“Mm-hm.” I waddle over to a chair. “I just need to sit. These Braxton-Hicks are a real bitch today.”
“Let me get you some water.” He rushes from the room, clearly flustered and oblivious to the fresh bottles sitting on the table.
He must trek to the Alps to find water. In the time he’s gone, I keep track of the pain, counting the minutes. What I remember about Braxton-Hicks is that they’re irregular.
