“Still. I don’t want to embarrass her,” Tate replies.
“Why did you never hook up with Mal? Is it because your parents hate each other?” Diana asks and I hear a sound that might be kissing as the conversation stalls for a second or two.
“I don’t care what ancient grudge my parents have with Chance and Hannah Echolls. We aren’t the Hatfields and McCoys. I have always liked Mallory. She’s fun and sweet and hilarious when she opens up.”
"Also easy on the eyes," Diana adds helpfully.
“She’s pretty,” Tate agrees. “There is nothing not to like about Mallory Echolls. But I think she’s the strings type, which is cool. It’s fine. It’s great, even. But I’m not… and can we stop talking about this. It’s fucking weird.”
The conversation stops and I let those words sink into my brain. I’m strings. He’s stringless. But he likes me. He thinks I’m pretty. I like that much more than I should.
"I bet if you tried, she might be down for just one night with you. After all one night is better than no nights," Diana states and I can't control it. My eyes fly open. The room is dark. Someone has drawn the black-out curtains across the window. Neither of them is anywhere near me, at least I can't see them, but I don't dare turn my head and alert them to my eavesdropping.
“Diana…”
“No, listen, I’m not being silly or stupid or even playing a game here,” Diana says and there’s a firmness that seems to override the drunkenness in her tone. “We’ve said all along we aren’t anything exclusive and never will be. You can be with whoever you want, whenever you want. I won’t be offended.”
“Stop,” Tate commands and there’s a kissing sound again. “Let’s sleep off the booze, like Mal.”
There are a few more kissing sounds and a giggle and a slap and another soft giggle but nothing else. At least not while I remain conscious, but I drift off suddenly, alcohol finally winning the war.
I don’t know how long I’m out but I wake up feeling like I’m floating, while also pressed against a very firm, very solid wall. My eyes flutter open. The room is still dark and now even the late afternoon sun that had breached the corners of the curtains earlier is gone. I’m moving through the room in a horizontal position and I realize that Tate is carrying me.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, wondering if this is some drunken dream.
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” he whispers to me. “You looked like a pretzel in that chair. I’ll take the… floor.”
“The three of us could share,” I say, showing once and for all why drunk Mallory is a danger to herself and others. “I mean, the bed is more than big enough, even with you being the size of a small house. We can all play nice, right?”
“I can if you can.” Tate lifts both his chestnut eyebrows. “And you always do, don’t you, Mallory?”
“Play nice? Yeah, I do. I’m the nicest nice girl you will ever meet,” I ramble and then he’s leaning over and placing me gently on the bed. “Marriage material. Sweet and serious and all those things hot guys like you don’t find attractive.”
“Mallory…” he whispers my name.
“Shh!” I scold. “I’m drunk. Nothing I’m saying is supposed to be acknowledged… or even remembered.”
The bed is as comfortable as I thought it would be. It feels like being bear-hugged by a cloud. I moan as my whole body relaxes and I start to drift off again. Then I hear Tate's voice in my ear and his breath against my cheek. "Tell me I can share your bed, Mallory."
“You are welcome in my bed anytime,” I murmur.
He crawls over me, to the center of the bed. Now he’s the filling in a Mallory-Diana sandwich.
“Oh baby girl, if only that were true,” is the last thing I hear before I slip back into a deep, drunk sleep.
I wake up hours later, with a thick, slightly throbbing head. I’ve got my back to the rest of the bed and Tate’s big heavy arm is draped over my waist. I’m his little spoon, curled right into his torso like a needy cat, and it feels… like a desperate, irrational, impossible dream come true. I don’t move a muscle. I just close my eyes and enjoy the feel of his breath tickling my neck. But then, after a few minutes, I feel him inhale deeply and stretch a little, without really moving positions. His hand also stretches and flexes, his palm now flat against my abdomen, just below my belly button.
And he flexes his hips and oh my God his erection pushes into my left thigh just under my butt cheek. Desire floods my veins. I just felt Tate’s dick. I shouldn’t have, but I did. And, like it or not, I’m over the moon with happiness about it.
But then his lips are on the base of my neck, pressing purposefully. His hand, fingers extended across my abdomen, is sliding lower, toward the hem of my long sundress, which has bunched up under the covers and is gathered at the tops of my thighs.
Alarm, as thick and heavy as the desire I feel for him, courses through me. He thinks I'm Diana. That's what's happening here and I have to stop it. My hand moves to cover his before he can slip under the bunched-up fabric. "Tate. It's Mallory."
His fingers still. His breathing stops and then his lips lift off my skin so he can speak. I’m expecting an ‘oops’ or a ‘sorry’ but what I get are two words that will change my life forever. “I know.”
Prologue - Tate
This is crazy. Full-blown, deep-end crazy. I mean, I am breakingallmy own rules. I don’t fuck around with women who don’t do one-night stands. Mallory doesn’t. She made that clear once in high school. We were all hanging out at Diana’s house. Diana and I weren’t hooking up yet, there were like ten of us just hanging out, playing cards, and being lazy bums eating crap food and drinking beers we snuck from Diana’s mom’s boyfriend’s stash.
