"No more after this, baby girl needs to be presentable for her family tomorrow," Jameson said, taking out a second bottle. She made a face at him.
They drank and chatted some more. Ellie texted him that she would be late. She was a paralegal, and her hours were all over the place. Tate was fine with that, she never felt comfortable around her sister. Ellie was tall and beautiful, with dark blonde hair that was always done up in just the perfect style. She was always wearing the most stylish clothing.
Tate was average height, with dark hair, almost black, and she had never paid attention to what was stylish, just wore what her mother bought for her. She was intimidated by Ellie, plain and simple. That's why she was going in to an excelled program at Harvard – to beat Ellie. Ellie was the golden child, the favorite child. Tate had always had to work ten times harder, just to always fall slightly behind.
She wound up blabbering all that to Jameson. Then went onto tell him all about her boyfriend Drew, whom he couldn't remember ever meeting, even though he had – several times. How boring Drew was, how he always wanted to tell her what to do, but he never wanted to do anything. Jameson nodded and listened to her prattle, sliding the champagne out of her reach.
"You're pretty funny, Tate. I never knew," he laughed. She rolled her eyes, shrugging out of her cardigan.
"Shocking. No one ever notices me, not when Ellie's around," she snorted, pulling her hair in to a ponytail. He raised an eyebrow.
"I wouldn't say that, Ellie's not as great as you make her out to be," he told her.
"Pffft. She looks like what would happen if Cindy Crawford and Christy Turlington had a baby," Tate pointed out.
"You're pretty, too."
"You have to say that, you're her boyfriend. You have to be nice to me," she laughed.
"No I don't. I'm hardly ever nice, and I almost never lie. You're an attractive girl, you just have bad self esteem, and worse taste in men," he informed her. She shrugged.
"Maybe, but that doesn't change the fact that Ellie is still better in most peoples eyes," she replied, fiddling with the stem of her champagne glass. Jameson leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
"I wouldn't say that. From a technical stand point, if we're being completely honest, I would have to say that you're much sexier than your sister," he told her.
She didn't breathe for a moment. Did Jameson Kane really just say that to her? Or was it the champagne? She glanced at him, and he was staring right back at her, a small smile playing on his lips. She shook her head and shook off her nerves. No. He was just being nice. That had to be it – what kind of a guy would tell his girlfriend's sister that she was the sexier of the two? Not a very good guy, that's for sure.
"Whatever. It'll all be behind me in a couple weeks. It'll be like a new Tate, that's what I'm going for; Ellie can suck it," Tate proclaimed, and then hiccuped. Jameson burst out laughing.
"See, now that's funny. Your sister sucking something – would never happen," he joked. Tate could feel her cheeks turning bright red.
"Gross," she blurted out.
"Too much? I guess we're not that good of buddies yet," he laughed.
"You shouldn't talk that way about your girlfriend, it's not very nice," Tate told him. He shrugged.
"Sometimes she's not a very nice girlfriend," he replied. Tate's eyes got wide as she had a realization.
"Are you going to dump my sister!?"
"Now, why would you ask that?" Jameson responded, his smile gone as his eyes stared in to her own.
"I don't know. Your voice, your attitude. Are you?" she pressed. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I shouldn't have given you champagne. I didn't know you'd turn in to Nancy Drew," he commented.
"Oh my god. You're going to dump Ellie. You've been together for two years. She thinks you're gonna propose. She's gonna die," Tate gushed, pressing a hand to her chest. His eyes narrowed.
"We haven't even talked about marriage, why would she think that? And I don't know what's going to happen with me and Ellie, we've got a lot to talk about; do not talk to her about this," Jameson commanded, pointing a finger at Tate. She raised her hands.
"I go out of my way to not talk to her, I won't breathe a word. But can I ask why?" Tate pressed, reaching out for the champagne. Jameson didn't even notice, he was so lost in thought, so she poured herself another glass.
"I don't know. It's ..., boring. Not exciting. Like you were saying about Drew. She wants this pre-programmed life, has everything decided for us. She knows what she's having for dinner next Tuesday, where we're going for the fourth of July, what we'll name our first child. She goes to bed at ten, gets up at six – I'm not allowed to touch her between those hours, I'm not even joking. I don't like being told what to do," his voice got quiet towards the end. Tate nodded, taking a large swig of her champagne.
"Sounds like Ellie. Do you know, one time when she was mad at me, to get back at me, she got in to my room and organized my closet? That was her idea of revenge," Tate told him.
He burst out laughing, and that set Tate off. They both bent over, unable to breathe for how much they were laughing. It was hilarious, and it was totally true. Ellie was like OCD Barbie. Very pretty, and a little crazy.
"Oh my god, that sounds like her," he chuckled. Tate nodded.
"I know! I've got a hundred more, she -," Tate started, but she was gesturing with her glass, and champagne sloshed all over her front.
"Oh jesus, I knew this was going to happen," Jameson shook his head, but he was laughing. Tate snorted, holding her wet shirt away from her chest.
"Then you shouldn't have given it to me," she replied. He stood up.
"I tried to take it away. C'mon, I'm sure Ellie has something you can wear," he said, gesturing for her to follow him. She got out of her chair.
"Oh no, she'll kill me, I'm not allowed to wear her stuff," Tate told him, following him across the living room and back in to the bedroom.
"Who cares? She owns so much shit, she'll never know. Just grab something, her stuff is in there," he explained, pointing to a section of the wardrobe before walking back out of the room.
Tate stared in to the wardrobe for a while, letting her eyes wander over the clothes. Everything Ellie owned was expensive; from a designer. From a young age, Tate had been taught not to touch. Jameson had just given her free reign. She snorted and dove in, yanking back the hangers. She laughed and pulled down a silk blouse – it looked ridiculously expensive.
Perfect.
She spun around and threw the shirt on the bed, stumbling as she did so. She didn't think she was drunk, but she was feeling a little light. Spinny. She laughed to herself, curling her fingers around the hem of her shirt and pulling the wet material up. She went to yank it over her head, but something happened. The shirt's tag got caught in a string of pearls she was wearing, which then got tangled in her hair, and she was stuck with her arms in the air, struggling to pull the shirt one way or the other.
"Oh my god," Tate laughed, stepping back and forth.
She lost her footing and stumbled clear across the room. She rammed in to something, a dresser, and moved so her butt was against it. She was really laughing now, struggling not to hyperventilate with the shirt covering her mouth. Her elbows were pinned above her head and she tried to reach the back of her neck with her fingers, arching her back. Her fingernails were just brushing the top of her spine when she heard something.
"What are you doing?"
She went stock still, her laughter dying. Jameson was in the room, and pretty close to her, judging by the sound of his voice. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. With her shirt up over her head, she was standing there in just her bra and khaki skirt.
"Um, I got stuck," Tate offered in a small voice. He chuckled, and he was even closer than before – right in front of her.
"Obviously. Help?" he asked. She managed to shake her head.
"No, I think I -," she started, but then felt his fingers at the neck of the shirt. He pushed it up, exposing her mouth and nose, but then left it there. She took deep breaths.
"Are you drunk, Tate?" he asked, talking slowly. She shook her head again.
"No. I mean, I don't think so. I'm just stuck," she replied. He laughed and she felt him pulling at the neck of the shirt again. A couple tugs, and the strand of pearls broke. She could feel them running down her body, some catching in her bra while the rest clattered to the floor. The shirt came free from her head and Jameson pulled it away, holding it in his right hand. He was staring down at her. She struggled to control her breathing.