3

Tate wasn't a stupid woman, though. She could even be smart when she put her mind to it, and she knew Jameson Kane better than anyone else on the planet. And while it was true that he was actually very thoughtful and quite generous, she knew that neither of those personality traits had anything to do with the little “party” he was planning.

She also knew that Richard Klimas was a junior broker. That's what the party was about – Jameson apparently still felt the need to prove he had the biggest dick of them all. It was ridiculous, but Tate did love to party, so if he wanted to show off his fancy house and his expensive toys and his new hot wife, she would oblige him.

“Have you ever been to a barbecue, Sandy?” Tate asked, hanging around the kitchen the next day while Sanders wrote down plans for the party.

“No,” was his response. He didn't bother looking up from his notebook.

“Then how do you know what to get? I've been to lots of barbecues,” she informed him.

“I am not surprised, but I assure you, I have this under control.”

“Well, can I at least see what all you've got planned?” she whined. She loved to tease him, and since she so rarely got the chance anymore, she made the most of it whenever he was around.

“You don't trust me?” he asked, finally glancing at her. His eyes, more gray than blue, were always impassive at first glance. But Tate knew how to read their stormy depths – she spoke fluent Sanders. She smiled softly at him.

“I trust you in all things,” she replied. “I'm just trying to be a pest.”

“Well, you are succeeding wonderfully at it.”

But he was smiling, as well, and he slid his notebook down the counter till it was in front of her.

He'd hired an event coordinator for a simple backyard barbecue! He'd also gotten a caterer who specialized in traditional Texan style barbecue. Her mouth watered as she looked over the menu he'd approved. Ribs and burgers and fish, oh my. There would be a fantastic selection of appetizers, followed by a casual stand-up meal that would come fresh from an enormous grill the company would bring with them. And of course, as always, an open bar.

“This is really impressive,” she finally said, handing his notes back to him.

“Thank you. I always thought I hated doing things of this nature, but you know, I've actually been enjoying it. It feels … nostalgic,” he told her.

“Awwww, Sandy. You know, you could do stuff like this all the time if you just moved back in with us,” she suggested. He cleared his throat.

“I'm sure I could, but I'm afraid I've grown accustomed to living in my own place.”

She snorted.

“Well, I haven't. Why won't you stay longer than the weekend? Stay a week, we'll go up to New York, just like old times,” she tried to tempt him. He adjusted his tie and just like that, she knew her attempts were futile.

“I would enjoy that, and we will be sure to go during another trip in the future, but I want to go home on Monday,” he insisted. She sighed and propped her chin in her hands.

“You're no fun now,” she said. The corner of his lips twitched and he looked at her again.

“I'm not entirely sure I was ever fun, but if you'd accept a compromise, we can bake some brownies if you'd like.”

Sanders took off his jacket and tucked his tie into his dress shirt, then laughed a little as Tate tied a frilly apron on him. She put on a sensible one and they made desserts together. She did the mixing and he did the washing. As he scrubbed the mixing bowl, she made him turn pink when she managed to get the entire brownie-batter-covered-mixing spoon into her mouth. When the goodies were finally done and cool enough to eat, they took a plate out to the conservatory and sat amongst the flowers.

“The roses look well,” he commented, leaning forward and rubbing a velvety petal between his fingertips. She watched his dress shirt stretch and strain across his broad shoulders. Amazing, Sanders with broad shoulders.

Talk about a late bloomer.

“Yeah,” she finally answered. “Jameson hired a guy, he comes once a week and checks everything.”

“Good. It makes me happy knowing my flowers are well taken care of,” he sighed, sitting back in his seat. Tate had her feet propped up on the table in front of them and he copied her pose, crossing his legs at the ankle.

“I thought it would. Jameson talked about tearing down the conservatory, turning the space into a huge outdoor living room type area. I told him it would crush you if he did,” she said.

“Tear down the conservatory? He's gone insane,” Sanders muttered. She laughed and covered his feet with her own.

“It's possible. Has he explained this party to you?” she asked, tearing off a piece of brownie and offering it to him.

“Yes, he said he wants a barbecue, and that's he's inviting some of the junior staff from -”

“Sandy, don't repeat things we both already know – you know I hate that. This is about that Rich guy,” she stated. Sanders cleared his throat and stared straight ahead, not even looking as he took the piece of brownie.

“If it is, Jameson did not mention anything of it to me,” he said before eating the dessert.

“Really?” she asked, not believing him one bit. The blush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

“He never specifically said Mr. Klimas' name to me in regards to the reason for this party.”

“Ah.”

“He did, however, make sure to double and triple check that Mr. Klimas had received an invitation, and that he'd RSVPed that he'd be in attendance.”

“See!” Tate clapped her hands together. “It is about that – you don't think Jameson is actually upset about the other day, do you? I told the truth, the dude just showed up.”

Sanders relaxed and patted her affectionately on the knee.

“Of course he's not upset at you. He is mad at Mr. Klimas.”

“But … it's just stupid. Why? It's not like I'm gonna run away with the guy. I don't even like him. He's not a threat, so why does Jameson care?”

“Because the man is offensive, and Jameson doesn't care for anything that offends. Mr. Klimas has apparently made inappropriate comments at work, in regards to yours and Jameson's relationship.”

“So big deal, just fire the guy.”

“And deny himself the pleasure, the fun, of showing Mr. Klimas just what he is up against?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It seems as though Mr. Klimas has gotten the idea that he might be better suited for you. I think this party is Jameson's way of proving him wrong,” Sanders explained.

Tate laughed, long and loud.

“That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard,” she gasped for air.

“Yes,” Sanders agreed, rubbing her back until she caught her breath.

“But it's also kind of sweet,” she admitted, and then she leaned back before he could move away, trapping his arm between her and her chair. She smiled and scooted over, snuggling into his side. He didn't hesitate to move his trapped arm and wrap it around her shoulders, hugging her close.

Sometimes it's like a different person. Sanders 2.0. Stronger. Faster. Cuddlier.

“He has an odd way of showing his love,” he stated. “But it is still love.”

“It is,” she agreed. “And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.”

They stayed like that until the sun set and they heard Jameson get home. Then Sanders put his shoes back on and stood up, all with Tate still clinging to him. When he made his way back through the house, he had to lumber because he was practically dragging her form along behind him.

“Finally,” Jameson sighed as he glanced at them when they came into the kitchen. “Someone else gets to deal with her antics.”

“You looooove my antics,” she teased.

He snorted.

“Everything is arranged for tomorrow. I have done my duty as party planner and baby-sitter,” Sanders started, pulling at her wrists while he spoke. “I would like to return to the guest house and make some phone calls.”

“No! You leave so soon, and we'll all be busy tomorrow, you can't leave me now!” Tate pleaded, locking her arms around him even tighter.

“Sir, if you'd please,” he sighed.

While he pulled and yanked at her arms, Jameson simply walked around behind them and picked her up. She was forced to let go and she laughed while Sanders walked briskly out of the room, straightening his clothing as he went.

“Why do you like torturing him?” Jameson asked, dropping her to the floor before turning away.

“Because he tolerates it so much better than you,” she replied, following him upstairs.

They moved into their bedroom and while Jameson went out into the sun room he'd had converted into an office, she walked into their closet. As she combed through hangers to find a suitable barbecue outfit, a phone rang from the next room. Jameson chattered away for a long time. She picked out multiple pieces of clothing, discarded most of them, then picked out some more all while he talked.

She finally got her day time outfit down – shorts and a plaid button down, keeping it authentic. But she wanted to change after sunset, and she couldn't decide whether or not to go silly or go sexy. She leaned against the dressing table, waiting for his phone call to end. When she realized over half an hour had passed, though, she decided enough was enough. She grabbed several hangers full of clothing and walked out of the closet.

“Jameson,” she hissed his name. He glanced at her as he slowly paced in front of their bed, but he didn't respond.

“No, no,” he was talking into the phone. “I'm talking court side. You'll be able to bullshit with the guys on the bench.”

Tate rolled her eyes. The Celtics, of course. Jameson gave exactly zero fucks about basketball, but he had friends and clients who enjoyed the sport, so he had season tickets, the best seats, everything.

“Just really quick, help me,” she whispered. That time, he didn't even bother glancing at her. Just completely ignored her as he kept pacing. There was a bowl of popcorn at the foot of the bed and every time he passed it, he took out a couple kernels and nibbled at them.

“We can do that ... maybe make a weekend of it ... I'll see what Tate's got planned.”

“Tate could tell you right now, if you'd give her a second,” she offered. He continued ignoring her and flicked a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

“No … no … I'll book the restaurant, your taste is shit … remember that last dinner?”

“Jameson,” she whispered again, pacing alongside him and holding up her armful of clothing. “Just two seconds – which is better?” Nothing. It was like she wasn't in the room. “Jameson, I forgot to tell you – I signed up to be in Ang's new porn, I need a plane ticket to L.A.” Normally any mention of Ang got a reaction, but not that night. “Oh my god, Jameson! Aliens! On the back lawn! And they're stomping through the rhododendrons!”

She'd gasped and pointed for that one, but still got zero reaction. She glared at him. Fine, he thought he could ignore her? She'd pull out the big guns. He finally paused in the conversation and shoved some more popcorn into his mouth. Tate seized the moment.

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I'm pregnant.”

She had expected a reaction. Maybe a glare, or a snarky comment. What she got, though, was much more dramatic. Jameson sucked in so hard he inhaled popcorn. He dropped his cell phone as he hacked and coughed. He finally had to bend over and lean a hand against the mattress. While he pounded at his chest with his free hand, the bowl of popcorn fell to the floor, scattering kernels everywhere.

“Jesus, are you alright? Should I get Sanders to give you the Heimlich?” Tate asked, tossing her clothing onto the bed.

“No,” he wheezed hoarsely. “What the fuck did you just say!?”

“I'm doing porn with Ang and there's aliens in the back yard.”

“What?”

“Oh, and I'm pregnant.”

If she'd ever thought about it, Tate would've figured that watching Jameson go pale would've been funny. Actually seeing it happen, though, was a different story. She almost felt bad.

“You're pregnant?” he demanded, staring hard at her.

“Yes, Jameson. With triplets. Eight months along – don't I look great?” she asked, turning to the side and showing off her flat stomach.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked.

“I'm not pregnant, you idiot, I just wanted your help picking out an outfit.”

“I … what?”

“You were ignoring me, I wanted to get your attention.”

“And that's how you do it? Jesus fucking christ, Tate, I almost had a goddamn heart attack!” he snapped, finally standing upright.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd react like that, I was just trying to be funny,” she explained, holding up her hands.

“I'm not fucking laughing.”

He was actually mad. She'd just blurted out the most ridiculous thing she could think of, something she'd felt sure would catch his attention, and he was acting like she'd just shot his favorite dog.

“Clearly,” she retorted. “And I'm sorry the idea of me carrying your child is enough to stop your heart.”

“Tatum, I'm pretty sure the idea of you being in charge of a tiny human being's life would be enough to give anyone a heart attack.”

“God, you're an asshole.”

“That was a very important client you just embarrassed me in front of.”

“Please, you embarrassed yourself. You do realize that babies are often a result of sex, right?” she informed him. He rolled his eyes and strode towards her, rolling up his sleeves as he went.

“Yes, and that's why all those brilliant doctors invented birth control.”

“Which isn't 100% effective.”

“Tate, are you actually trying to tell me something here, or are you just being annoying?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.

“Neither. I'm just pointing out that there is at least a 1% chance that I may someday have to tell you I'm pregnant, and that if I ever do, you had better not fucking react like that,” she snapped.

“I make no promises.”

“Sometimes I seriously think about hating you.”

“Please,” he snorted, hooking a finger into the top of her pants and yanking her close. “You couldn't stop loving me if you tried.”

“Keep putting that to the test.”

“Stop talking. I thought you wanted my opinion on what you should wear tomorrow,” he reminded her as he plucked at her clothing.

“Wanted, as in past tense. Now I don't care what I wear to your stupid fucking party,” she grumbled, not moving as he undid the button on her pants and pulled down the zipper.

“Pity,” he sighed, shoving her pants over her hips, causing them to pool at her feet.

“Why?” she asked, raising her arms as he yanked and pulled her shirt over her head.

“Because I think this outfit is what looks best on you.”

“Jameson.”

“Yes?”

“I'm only wearing panties.”

“Exactly. Now please stop talking.”