5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Milo
“I think we should break down what happened with our prank on Blaine tonight. Do sort of a play-by-play,” I say as Rose and I walk down the street to the ice-cream place. The night sky is clear, and I look up to find a couple of stars. It’s Denver, so the light pollution makes it hard to see stars most of the time, but I’m finding it’s a good idea to try to focus on the sky and not the gorgeous woman at my elbow.
“Play-by-play?” she says. “That reminds me. I don’t think we should eat ice cream together until we tell each other our NFL teams.”
“You’re changing your tune? You want to be that intimate, huh?” I punctuate the word “intimate,” letting my voice slide into a softer tone.
She gives me a light shove on the shoulder. “No. But I am walking down a street at night with a complete stranger. My normally copious amount of responsibility is screaming at me right now.”
“I’m not exactly a stranger. I’ve seen you at the restaurant before.”
“Guess what? I remember seeing you before, too.” She presses her lips together in a rosebud shape. Her hands are clasped lightly behind her as she walks. It’s the most natural thing in the world to be here with her. It’s as if we do this all the time.
“Well, then. We’re practically old friends. But still, that doesn’t mean we have to go for ice cream . . .”
“Said no one ever!” she says. “Except, you’re a stranger, and I’ve never gone for ice cream with a stranger before. So, when you think of it, asking about your NFL team is the least of my worries.”
I slow, turn to face her, and remove my hands from my pockets, holding up my palms in a peaceful gesture. “I understand. No pressure at all. But if you’d like to go, we’ll be in a well-lit, public place the whole time. You can text a family member or friend my name, number, and driver’s license.” I remove my wallet from my back pocket and hand her my license.
She takes it from me, scrunching up her eyes as she looks at it in the light of a streetlamp. A slight wave of surprise flicks over her face. It’s so brief I wonder if I imagine it. Not everyone cares that I’m a Tate.
After taking a quick photo of it and texting for a moment, she hands the card back to me. “I think you should know that I have that spray.” Her eyes challenge me. With a stare down like that, I bet she’s got plenty of people who are like putty in her hands.
“What spray?”
She clutches her phone. “You know? For self-defense!” She teases out a smile.
“Oh!” She opens her purse, muttering. “Also . . . where is it? I’ve got the spray and then the other thing. You know? A foghorn. My mom gave it to me a while back. A long while back, but still.” She paws through her purse and then stops to meet my gaze. “Do you think it expires?”
“What? The spray or the foghorn thing?”
She rolls her eyes. “Maybe both.”
“I honestly don’t know. But you’re welcome to use one or both of them at any
moment you feel the least bit threatened.”
She clicks her tongue, giving me a dubious look. “Have you ever been pepper -sprayed?”
“I feel like this is one of those layered questions.”
“Like, if you answer yes, I’ll know you’re quite possibly a serial killer?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a serial killer?”
I can’t help laughing. “I meant yes, as in if I tell you I’ve gotten pepper-sprayed
then you’ll think someone felt threatened by me and that opens up a crazy can of worms.”
“So you have?” She makes a show of taking a huge step back and away from me,
a cringe appearing on her face.
“No. I haven’t. But my brother has. He used to be in the army. They did all kinds
of things to him to toughen him up.”
“Did it work?”
“Something did. He’s basically Hercules now.” I shrug. “Okay, well now that
we’ve got all the safety protocols in place, my favorite NFL team—”
She quickly places a hand over my mouth. I stumble back, but her body comes with me, continuing to press against me as she struggles to gain her footing. “Shh. Let me try to guess.” With a little laugh, she drops her hand. “Because I’m getting some serious vibes, and I want to know if I’m right.”
The streetlamp above us shines like a spotlight. A couple holding hands passes us, and a breeze lifts the leaves on the orange and yellow trees that line the sidewalk.
Close to me, she looks up at me with a grin, her dark-brown hair coming out of her large clip every which way.
I find it hard to speak as I breathe in her crisp, cucumber soap scent.
Finally, I manage, “What are your guesses?”
“Does the quarterback’s name rhyme with Laker Bayweild?”
“Laker Bayweild? Like Baker Mayfield?” I scoff. “Wrong.”
“So not Tampa Bay. Okay. We’re narrowing it down.” She nods, like she’s readying herself for a big exam. Or a spot on Jeopardy!
Her mention of Tampa Bay has me thinking about Florida, which is where my surprise half-brother Benson was born. The thought twists my gut in two. He was born there after his mother had a brief relationship with my dad when he was in college. It was before my mom came along, but still. I haven’t figured out how I feel about it.
I was pretty much fine with it all. But then my dad surprised me this morning, saying I needed to choose which job I’m going to take. The way he mentioned Benson struck me as odd. Like he might offer something to Benson, as well.
I got all kinds of territorial. About the job. About my father.
And now I don’t know what to do. Let Benson take the position, and I go work for my brother, Sebastian, at Tate International in Longdale? Would Sebastian offer something to Benson if I take the job with our dad?
Sebastian, the oldest son of our parents, Thomas and Celine Tate, started his resort company, Tate International, over ten years ago. Dad had asked him to work for him at Foundations Financial, but Sebastian always wanted to do his own thing. Over the years, one by one, our brothers have joined him at his company in one capacity or another.
And now it’s my turn to decide. Join my brothers at Tate? Or be the only son to work for our father?
Gabriel, my mom and dad’s fourth son, did for a long while, but that arrangement ended, and now, it feels like I’m Dad’s only hope for a successor.
Whatever I decide to do is going to be wrong. And not just because I’ll be letting someone down either way. It’ll be wrong because I want to do something else entirely for a career.
But I’m not talking to anyone in my life about that.
Rose taps her rosebud mouth with her finger. “Hmm. Did they win the Super Bowl within the last five years?”
I snort. “In my dreams.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“New York. Columbia University. But that’s not relevant to this.”
She whistles. “Columbia, huh? Ritzy spitzy. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. My dad and most of my brothers went there. They paved the way . . . A.K.A. my dad is in the booster club.”
Her brows rise. “I have so many questions.”
“Like about my favorite team, or . . .?”
“Your family. You said most of your brothers. How many do you have?”
“Five.” I hit my forehead. “Six!”
She raises her eyebrows like I’m crazy. “That’s cool. I’d like to shake your parents’ hands. Having so many babies? That’s commendable.”
“Yeah. It is. I liked growing up in a big family. What about you? Any siblings?”
“Two sisters and a brother, but we’re not done discussing you. And do you really think they just let you into an Ivy League school because of who your father is? Are you rich or something?”“I’m a recent college graduate, so no. But my parents do pretty well.”
She snorts. “Evasive, I see. Got it.” She begins walking to the ice-cream parlor again, hands shoved in the pockets of her jean jacket. I rush to join her.
“So, you went to college in New York,” she tosses over her shoulder. “You’re a Giants fan.”
“Please. I think I’m gonna be sick. Although I feel like I’m learning more about you than you’re learning about me. You’re a very opinionated person.”
Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips. “I’ve had to be. To not get totally walked all over my whole life.” Before I can ask her more, she goes on. “I’m feeling Texas vibes. But the question is which one? Are you a Cowboy or a Wolf?”
I stare at her. She narrowed it down. How did she do that so quickly? Before I can respond, she answers her own question.
“A Wolf.” She glances at my mouth. “In more ways than one.” A brow snakes up her forehead as she watches for my reaction.
Before I can get my brain up to speed, she goes past me and enters the parlor.
Once inside the fifties-style soda shop, she orders a large salted-caramel double-scoop in a waffle cone. I order the same thing, only in Rocky Road. She tries to pay, and there’s a bit of harmless tapping, swiping at, and pushing each other’s card-holding hands. I win and manage to insert my card first.
She seems genuinely miffed.
As we wait, we’re quiet as we gaze at the intricate designs painted on the walls. Studying the traditional cartoon strips eases the attention away from the intensity between us.
Once our ice-cream cones have been scooped up and served, we sit in the far corner, pink plush booth. It’s almost closing time and the place is nearly empty. There’s only one other couple with a baby sitting in the other corner.
“Can I take your jacket? You must be hot.”
“No!” She tugs it tighter around her. “I’m fine.”
I catch a glimpse of her as she takes a big lick of her ice cream and have to clear my throat and look away. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to get ice-cream cones. Would it have been better if it had been in a bowl with a spoon? Because the way she’s using her mouth and tongue right now is . . .
“So, what about you?” I ask around licks of ice cream. “I want to try to guess your favorite team.”
“So I was right, huh?”
“It’s sort of a family obligation to like the Wolves. In a way.” Alec, the brother just older than me, got hurt, so his career with them was cut short. But I’m loyal.
I’m probably loyal to a fault, come to think of it. Thus the employment stress and the inability to choose who to work for in the family. I did an internship over the summer, which gave me a reprieve from having to decide. Now? Time’s pretty much up.
My gaze takes her in. Again. I hope she doesn’t realize how much my heart speeds up with every bite of ice cream she takes. And it’s not like she’s trying to seduce me. She’s getting it on her chin and nose and pulling funny faces when she realizes it.
I grab a bunch of napkins out of the dispenser on our table and hand them to her. If this were a date, I’d probably see if she’d let me use the napkins on her face for her. You know, to help her out.
But I don’t know what this is.
“You guessed mine in three, so I’ll try to do the same.” Better to focus on football instead of her mouth. “There’s something about California in you.” I twist my mouth to one side. “Or, your time working for Casa del Cibo could have influenced you.”
“It absolutely did not.”
“So no Italian influence, huh? Okay. I still stick to my California vibe.” I lower my voice, talking to myself. “Rams, Chargers, or Forty-niners . . .?”
She clamps her mouth shut, tightly. I stare into her soul, enjoying the playful give and take of our gazes.
I point to her. “Forty-niners.”
“You got it on the first guess?” she wails. She grabs at a lock of hair that’s escaped her clip. “How am I that transparent?”
“Oh, you’re not transparent. I’m just really smart.”
She smiles. “I don’t doubt that.”
“You’re the one with the biology degree. And you’re going to nursing school.” I work on my ice cream for a moment. “I’m insanely impressed.”
“Don’t be. It’s well overdue.” Her eyes—that are a captivating shade of hazel, with swirls of light brown—sadden.
“Why? What have you been waiting for?”
“I wasn’t waiting .” She swallows hard. “I’ve had some challenges that have prevented me from actually starting the program. I got my undergrad in bio, then changed my mind and decided to become a nurse. So I worked as a medical assistant to get some experience, applied to nursing school, got accepted, and then . . . life.” She clears her throat, a visceral clearing of the subject. A sort of we’re not discussing me right now.
I crave getting to know her better. She’s such a dichotomy. So strong, yet vulnerable. Easy to talk to.
She finishes her ice cream, digging her tongue into the cone to fish out a bit more of the tan liquid that’s already melting on her tongue.
Have I mentioned her mouth is the stuff of dreams?
She stands from our corner table and chucks the bottom tip of the waffle cone in the trash.
Huh. “You don’t like ice cream cones?” I finish, too, and hurry to stand.
There’s a ball of yarn that’s bouncing between us and away from me, unraveling right in front of me, just out of reach. There’s no reason for her to continue to hang out with me. She’s probably going to go home now, which is the last thing I want.
“Oh, I love them.” She adjusts her purse up her shoulder, then laughs at my quizzical look. “It’s just a thing.” She waves me away. “Don’t worry about it. But thanks. I appreciate the ice cream. And the . . . interesting evening.”
“I’m confused.” I sigh, and peer at her with a pleading smile. “And dying to know the reason you don’t finish ice cream cones.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not saying.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fact that in Alabama, it’s illegal to walk down the street with an ice cream cone in your back pocket?”
She dissolves in peals of laughter. “What?” she says, when she finally catches her breath. “That can’t possibly be true. It’s inadvisable . . . but illegal?”
“It is,” I assure her. “I swear it.”
Her gaze takes me in, assessing me, making up her mind about me.
She offers a smile before turning away. “Okay. But that has nothing to do with why I don’t eat the tip of my ice cream cone.” She looks back at me over her shoulder and excitement tumbles through me. “Guess you’ll always wonder.” And then she pushes open the door and hurries out of the shop.