Page 47 of Tate
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t…nothing ever works out for me. Maybe I’m one of those people who don’t get to be happy.”
“Of course you get to be happy. That’s crazy?—”
“Is it?” Her mouth tightened. “Take a good look at the debris in my life. Joy. David. Even the Yankee Belles have disbanded.”
“You’re not disbanded?—”
“We could be. It always happens. I dream big, put my heart into something, and it turns to sand in my hands.” She drew in a deep breath. “I just wish…I wish I could just know that everything will be all right.” She stared at her half-eaten Fig Newton. “I’m not a fan.”
“They’re certainly not frozen Ho Hos.” Cher gave her a sad smile. “There’s nothing wrong with dreaming big, Glo. Longing for true love.”
“I found true love once. I don’t know that I can lose it again.”
“You do have a lot of wreckage in your past.”
“Tate can’t be the next casualty.”
Cher blew out a breath. “Okay. So what’s the plan, Danny Ocean?”
“Commence Operation Angry Tate?”
“Can I just say, this is a suicide mission?”
Glo raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Cher nodded toward the sliding glass door, and Glo turned.
The man had the ability to stop her heart in its tracks. He’d entered the patio area and slid onto a deck chair, bathed in the wan glow of the pool. He’d changed out of his suit—so, clearly off duty—and wore a pair of jeans, flip-flops, and a black T-shirt. And another ice pack affixed to his shoulder.
He positioned his chair to angle toward her window. And wore such a dark, fierce expression, it went right through her, to her core.
Steeled her.
The very thought of him sitting out there…all night long…
If she didn’t stay up all night watching him, she might actually sleep.
“‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?’” Cher said, almost breathlessly.
“Stop it.”
“‘It is my lady. Oh, it is my love….’”
Glo slid off the stool, shoved the bag of Fig Newtons back in the pantry, and headed toward the stairs to her bedroom.
But not before she turned for one more look at Tate. He sat with his arms folded, his shoulders bunching, as if he refused to move out of her life.
Yes, this was a suicide mission, at best.
5
He would get the next fourteen hours with Scarlett.
Ford’s only goal was not to say something stupid, not to let her in on the fact that when he’d seen her crying, when he’d pulled her to himself, when she’d actually held onto him, something dangerous had shifted inside him.
He’d gone from wanting her in his ear to wanting her in his arms and, hello, no.
