Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

After the crappy morning,tacos with Tate for a late lunch definitely wasn't on my radar. I figured it would be weird between us for sure, even if my assumptions hadn't ruined everything. I spent the whole afternoon pretending to do the weekly liquor order and obsessing over how to apologize for being a judgmental asshole.

"I really do want to apologize, though. Need to, honestly. It's just…when I first moved here, and we seemed to click so fast… I guess I was just freaked out by how quickly I developed feelings for you."

Tate's eyes meet mine, sharp and alert. I can tell he's holding back, wanting to interrupt, but he stays quiet. That's Tate, though. He's a unicorn among mortal humans, for sure. He cocks a brow, impatient for me to continue, and I revise my thoughts. Maybe not a unicorn. He's not perfect. But he's pretty damn great.

"And?" Tate's impatience overcomes his unicorn-ness, and I stifle a giggle.

"And I know better than to listen to gossip. Especially when I know you as well as I do. But then? We'd just become friends. It seemed like the people who said you were a hit-and-quit guy when you traveled knew you better than I did. So I believed them."

"You know me better than that, Jill. Tell me you do." Hurt lowers his voice to a deep rumble.

"I mean, I do now!" I rush to explain.

"Then why keep me in the friendzone? You had to know I was interested in you." He sounds baffled, but there's no ignoring the command in his tone.

"Because what if I was wrong? What if I messed up our friendship? Or what if…" I can't bring myself to lay out my biggest fear. The real one. It has nothing to do with Tate, and everything to do with worrying I'd fall in love and turn into my mother. That I'd become someone who gives up on their own passions and interests to play backup to their partner's ambitions.

"What if what? Where's this pessimism coming from? That's not you." Conviction rings in every word. We may not be friends who share every little secret, but Tate knows I'm not the type to envision every possible way things can go wrong. At least, he knows I'm not that way as a business owner or friend. But romantic-Jill? Relationship-Jill? Yeah, that me has lots of worries.

Top of the list? Screwing up the best friendship I've ever had with a guy. I mean, sure sex is great, and after seeing exactly what Tate's working with, I have no doubt it would be out-of-this-world awesome. Not that it'd take much, considering I haven't been with anyone but myself since before I moved to Magnolia Point and bought the Diddled Fiddle.

Is it ironic for the owner of a bar, with a masturbation pun for a name, being a gold medalist in solo sexing? Most definitely.

I shove a giant bite of spicy citrus-pork, wrapped in soft corn tortilla, in my mouth. With my cheeks puffed out around the ridiculous amount of food I'm chewing, there's no way I can answer him. Clever deflection. I pat myself on the back, metaphorically.

Tate narrows his eyes at me when I lift the taco to take another monster bite before I even swallow the last one. He leans back in his chair, thickly muscled forearms flexing when he crosses them over his broad chest. The same chest I'd ogled just this morning when his shirt had been tucked under his chin so he could stroke that magnificent cock without tangling in the wet cotton.

My unruly brain conjures the picture of every defined ridge and plane of sculpted brawn, his body bulked up from his job lifting heavy glass and frames. How such delicate stained-glass art can come from such a hulked-out guy has always surprised me. His right eyebrow lifts, and his lush smile curves into a cocky smirk. I know he's caught the way I can't help eye-fucking the way his muscles flex and relax.

Silence stretches between us, the only noise being my very impolite chewing and gulping. My lips are clamped down tight around the bulging mouthful of food. Not just in an attempt to avoid being that gross person who chews with their mouth open, but to stifle the confessions bursting to get out of my chest.

The urge to confess my biggest fears about falling in love bubbles alongside the impulse to admit how absolutely horny Tate makes me. How much I love his body and fantasize about his hands on me when I touch myself.

"Cute but it's not gonna work, babe. You have to finish that taco at some point. Then you'll be out of excuses, and I'll still be here, waiting for you to admit what's between us will be so good any of your worries will disappear."

I grab for the bag of tortilla chips, the need to stall while I process his bold claim riding me hard. Before I can seize the queso, Tate snatches the container of melty gooey goodness out of reach.

"You can't hold the queso hostage. It's inhumane!"