Tate started to open the door because there was no way in hell he was letting that man in his house, and that was when he saw Reilly racing from the main house.
He would’ve laughed because Reilly insisted she would only run if there was an apocalypse and zombies were after her—her idea of the worst thing that could happen. Which meant she considered this visitor to be the equivalent of a doomsday event.
He reached for the doorknob to interrupt, but it didn’t open when he pulled. Tate jerked the handle as though that would help but realized it was locked at the top. He reached for the sliding pin on the doorjamb, trying to wiggle it loose, but it was stuck.
“Shit.” He stared in horror as Reilly’s mouth opened. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” she shouted at the visitor before Tate could get outside.
“I came to see Tate. You got a problem with that?”
“A big one,” she said, stopping right in front of him and planting her hands on her hips. “Yeah.”
Again, Tate wanted to laugh because she was huffing like a freight train.
“Good thing he doesn’t answer to you.”
Tate finally got the pin free and jerked the door open. He stepped out onto the extra-wide porch that ran the length of the barn on one side. “It’s okay, Reilly.”
She cocked her head to the side and gave him theare you fucking kidding me?expression she was known for.
“What are you doin’ here?” Tate asked Ben.
Ben was looking at the house. “You live in a barn?”
Tate pretended not to notice the way he spat the last word.
“What do you need, Ben?”
“I need her not to attack me from behind,” he said, his full attention on Reilly.
“Trust me, I’ll attack from the front, so you know I’m comin’,” Reilly hissed.
“Rye.” Tate moved closer to the steps. “It’s cool.”
Apparently, his definition ofcoolclashed with her definition because she glared at him.
His ex-boyfriend’s gaze shifted back to him, and his chin tilted up as though he’d won that round. Ben was too stupid to realize he would never win against Reilly. She was fiercely loyal and hated Ben because of the hell he’d put Tate through.
Ben slipped his hands into the pockets of his camel-colored, double-breasted, knee-length overcoat. At one point in time, Tate had found the man ridiculously appealing. Now he merely found him ridiculous. Especially since he’d paired that pretentious coat with a chocolate brown turtleneck sweater and tan, slim-fit chinos. If Tate had to guess, he’d selected the outfit directly from the Macy’s website from the “wear it with” section.
Ben met Tate’s gaze. “Do you think we could go inside?”
The snarl on Ben’s lip said he didn’t really trust to go inside, worried he might find himself knee-deep in horseshit.
The good news was, the only horseshit around there was anything that came out of Ben’s lying, cheating mouth.
“Tate Bellamy Riggs,” Reilly called from behind Ben’s car.
He waved her off. “It’s okay, sweetie.”
It was obvious she didn’t believe him, but he appreciated that she turned and headed back to the main house. Not without turning back around at least half a dozen times in the process, though.
Tate shifted his attention to Ben. “Why’re you here?”
“It’s your birthday,” Ben said, plastering one of his sunny smiles on his pretty face.
“Technically, not until Monday,” Tate countered.
