Six months living with Tate. In his sweatpants and nothing else. Well, except for the thick silky hair, piercing aquamarine eyes, and casual masturbation conversations.
“Contract is such a shitty word,” Tate backtracks, assuming my silence is a sign of annoyance, I guess. He looks contrite and slightly panicked. “Agreement? Arrangement? Pact? Call it whatever works for you and I’ll agree.”
Tate looks away, at something on the tiled patio floor. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something else but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes and when he opens them he looks at me with a pleading stare. “I know it’s a lot to ask. I know you’ve gone above and beyond for him, and me, already. I won’t hate you if you have to say no.”
“I don’t have to say no,” I reply softly. Because Idon’thave to say no. Yes, my family is waiting for me, but nothing else is. No job. No prospects. No boyfriend. No best friend. I have no reason to say no, but at the same time, for my own sake, maybe I should. “I will do anything to make this easier on Dylan. None of this is his fault.”
"Thank you, Mallory," Tate replies, and before I realize what he's doing he's off his couch and on mine. Right beside me circling me with his strong arms and pulling me into him.
His hugs are always so damn comforting. My whole body relaxes into him and I rest my chin on his shoulder and close my eyes, inhaling the smell of his soap and shampoo and savoring the way the damp ends of his hair brush my cheek. He’s got a wide palm flat against the center of my back between my shoulder blades.
“I lied to you,” he whispers so low and soft against my ear that I almost don’t hear it. I want to pull back, to look at him, but that palm of his is holding me in place. “I need you to stay for more than Dylan. I need you to stay for me.”
I hold my breath. My heart trips over itself in my chest. That hand on my back moves up, under the ends of my hair, towards my neck. His voice gets softer and raspier, like velvet sandpaper. “I spend every day lost in a sea of emotions and you are my only anchor, Mallory.”
His palm is now against the back of my neck and his fingers curl around it gently but possessively. I inhale sharply, almost a gasp. “Tate…” I pull back just enough so we can look at each other. His features are a blur, and I can feel his breath against my lips.
“I know I ruined our friendship, and I’m sorry,” he confesses. “I know you are still hurt and angry about the night in the hotel room.”
"I'm mad at myself about that," I whisper hoarsely. "Not at you. I knew how I'd feel right afterward but I didn't stop it. I didn't have an ounce of self-restraint, or preservation, and that's my fault, not yours. You gave me ample opportunity that night to opt-out."
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I wanted you so badly, and still do, if I had the chance to do it again knowing it would make you run to another country and cut me out of your life, I probably still wouldn’t be able to stop myself from touching you.”
What the hell do you say to that? What does he want me to respond with? I say nothing. And that's when I feel his lips brush my cheek. And we both move our heads like this is some grand, thought-out plan. The next logical step.
When his lips touch mine it feels as right and comforting as his embrace, and I lean into it just like I did the hug. Unlike the other times we’ve made this glorious mistake, this time he doesn’t taste like tequila and isn’t fueled by sexual frustration. This may be another bad decision, but it isn’t rash. That hand of his at the back of my neck slides into my hair as my mouth opens slightly in invitation and his tongue finds mine and every molecule in my body reacts. I grip his shoulders and am basically crawling into his lap when?—
The front door slams and Tenley’s panicked voice calls out, “We have an emergency! Help!”
We both break apart and leap off the couch. My heart is in my throat until I see Tenley holding a perfectly healthy-looking Dylan out in front of her like he’s a ticking bomb. “His ass exploded!”
Oh. He’s a bomb that already went off.
Tate reaches him first and pulls Dylan close only to immediately hold him at arm’s length like Tenley had. Tate’s face scrunches up and he chokes back a gag. “Oh my God, something is desperately wrong.”
“Nope,” I inform them calmly, trying not to smile. “Just regular baby shit. Literally.”
Tate turns, holding Dylan out toward me, but I take a step toward the stairs and shake my head. "Oh no, Daddy. This is your chance to bond with your son."
“I feel like he’d be happier if you handled this,” Tate replies but he follows me up the stairs, Tenley behind me and Dylan still dangling from his hands.
“He seems just fine, for once,” I note and glance over my shoulder. Dylan is swinging his feet. There’s a yucky dark brown stain seeping bigger and bigger in the front of his pants. One of his white socks is also tinged brown. Kid let a good one go.
“Oh God, it smells so bad. Are you sure we shouldn’t call a doctor?” Tate asks me as he follows me into the bedroom. “Does he have a baby norovirus or something?”
"We'll monitor it but I think it's just breakfast didn't agree with him," I reply and point to the bathroom. "Ten, can you run a lukewarm bath. Just a quarter full please."
Tenley happily leaves the room, which is filling up with the scent of Dylan’s mess. Tate gags again. I bite my cheek to keep from laughing as I walk over to the changing table I put together two days ago after Amazon delivered it. I motion for Tate to bring him over and he does and lays him down on his back.
I hand him some rubber medical gloves I ordered for occasions just like this. "Put these on." I reach into the first drawer pull out laundry clips and hand him one. "And put this on your nose."
Tate’s eyes flare to the size of dinner plates. “Seriously?”
"You'll thank me later," I promise him. "Even if you get baby poop out from under your nails it still smells after, no matter how much soap you use or how much you scrub. I think it's psychological. Anyway, the gloves prevent it."
“I have a set of protective goggles in the storage locker,” Tate says as serious as a heart attack. “Should I grab them too?”
I giggle. It bubbles out of me and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. Tate looks mortified.
