Page 30 of Tate
Glo, calling him Tater, Rambo, and every other nickname she could think of.
Glo, bleeding from a gunshot wound, her face pale.
Glo, hanging onto him as he carried her to help.
Glo, her eyes in his after she’d sung her song about second chances.
Glo, tugging him down to kiss him, her lips warm, her body molding to his.
Glo, weeping as she walked out of his life.
His chest ached, and he reached up and pressed a hand against it as Knox touched down at the Helena airport.
Tate climbed out, grabbed the briefcase and the duffel bag.
Knox got out too. Stood in front of him, a look of unmasked worry on his face. “Okay, so….”
“I’ll be fine. See you in a few.” He held out his hand to Knox.
Knox pulled him in quick, slapped his back. “Stay out of trouble.”
Tate gave him a grin, then headed inside.
He booked his flight at the desk, not even blinking at the price. On his flight, he squeezed himself into a window seat, changed planes in Salt Lake City, then northern Kentucky, and finally landed in Nashville just as the sun hit the back side of the day.
He rented a car and drove out of Nashville to the Jackson family estate, listening to the radio. A Brett Young song lit up the speakers.
I can’t count the times
I almost said what’s on my mind
But I didn’t…
Not anymore. Yes, his promise to Reba thrummed in his brain, but he’d keep the commitment.
He would keep his distance.
But it didn’t mean he couldn’t fall for Glo all over again.
And when this mess was over…
Yeah, no promises there, Senator.
He followed his map to Brentwood and slowed as he drove up to the gated— Oh. My.
He could barely see the house from the road. It sat back nearly a quarter mile, past a pond and rolling hills and a scant forest of maples and oaks. Beautiful chestnut thoroughbreds ran in a large field of emerald green grass.
He stopped at the gate, spotted the cameras, and a voice came over a speaker. “Hello?”
“Tate Marshall, for Senator Jackson. She’s expecting me.”
The gate opened, and he drove along the paved, landscaped road to the big house.
The Jackson estate was exactly that—a sprawling, pristine white Southern plantation-style home, with black shutters at the windows and tall columns that held up a front porch.
He pulled into the brick paved driveway and got out. Sprinklers bathed the front lawn, groomed like a golf course, and as he’d driven up, he’d spotted an expansive pool area behind the house.
A man dressed in a suit—dark skinned, dark eyes, middle aged, and fit enough to be called security—walked from an outbuilding. “Tate.”
