Chapter 17 Sullivan #2
The sultry room—with a glamorous thirties era feel to it—is like stepping onto a movie set.
A long bar with a smoky glass wall behind it runs along the length of one wall, and intimate tables with plush velvet seating are placed strategically around the room with enough space between them that conversations remain private.
Privacy is paramount in Seasons. Presidents drink here. Royalty drinks here. The top people in their fields all drink here. My father created a safe haven for those plagued by having their every move watched and scrutinized. Here, they’re free of all constraints.
Here, they can lose themselves in the music and just be.
I lead Tate toward a table tucked away in a candlelit corner near the stage. Her head swivels as she admires the chandeliers hanging overhead, but it’s the grand piano on stage that stops her in her tracks.
She stands, enthralled, in the center of the seating area, her eyes transfixed on Vincent as he plays a Debussy piece with skilled ease.
“He’s amazing,” she breathes.
“He’s our resident pianist. He studied at Julliard.”
We stand, watching. Tate seems to be in a trance, and it’s only after Vincent plays the final notes that she allows me to lead her the remainder of the way to our table.
“It’s really beautiful in here. It’s like a dream,” she says, looking around as I pull her seat out for her.
“It was my father’s vision. I’ll tell him you said so, he’ll be pleased.”
We order drinks, and I don’t engage with Tate until the server returns with them.
She’s too lost in her own world, listening to Vincent play another song.
Something about the way her breath hitches along with the crescendos of the music and her eyes mist like it’s speaking directly to her soul has me spellbound.
I’m accustomed to seeing women’s faces when they’re experiencing pleasure.
But Tate is a different vision entirely.
My attention drops to the plastic bracelet on her wrist as we clink our glasses.
“I know it doesn’t fit with the vibe of this place,” she says, sipping her drink, then placing it down quickly so she can cover the bracelet with her hand after noticing me studying it.
She strokes it gently with her thumb. “But I wear it all the time. I won it at the fair when I was with my mom. It’s the last day we had out together before she died. ”
Jesus, I’m a bigger asshole than I thought.
I swallow my whiskey and place my glass down. “I’m sorry. What happened to her?”
Tate rubs her bracelet, smiling sadly. “Brain hemorrhage. No warning. One moment she was here. The next…” She shrugs.
“I understand what that’s like.”
She lifts her eyes to my face. “Of course… your mother and brother. I’m so sorry.
I read about it online.” She winces like she’s mad at herself for reminding me that the press created a media circus reporting on their deaths, like it was a type of sick entertainment.
Speculations were rife for some time afterward over whether it was an insurance coverup, or something equally underhand.
It all died down after a few weeks when an investigation declared the yacht fire as an accident.
Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a terrible, tragic accident.
Without conscious thought, I lean over and gently uncover her hand from her bracelet.
“My sister wears a necklace that reminds her of our brother. The diamond is made from his ashes.”
Tate’s eyes shine with understanding. “It’s not the same as having them, but it can help to have something to hold onto in those times their loss hits you.”
“Comes out of nowhere, doesn’t it?”
She holds my eyes, her voice soft with understanding. “Yeah, sure does.”
Vincent continues his set and I observe Tate’s growing smile as she listens. I saw the way she touched the piano in my place. I was right to bring her here.
“Do you play?” I ask.
“I do. I’m not very good, though.” She turns her gaze from Vincent and meets mine. “Do you?”
“Sometimes,” I reply. “I’ve been told I’m excellent.”
I hold back my smile as she breaks into a surprised laugh.
“Is excellent spelled v-a-i-n, by any chance?”
I let the smallest fragment of my smile out so that my lips quirk. “I see you learned spelling at the same school as my sister.”
Tate bites down on her bottom lip, and her laugh softens. “She gives it back to you, huh? She sounds cool.”
“She is.”
“I don’t just play.” Tate screws her face up like she’s embarrassed before she takes another sip of her cocktail. “I like to write songs too.”
“You do?”
“Yep. One almost got me a place in a girlband once. Until they decided my ‘thunder thighs’ didn’t belong on an album cover.”
“Thunder thighs?”
She shrugs, reluctant to meet my eyes. “Their words, not mine. They wanted thin and pretty.”
“Thin,” I echo, my eyes dropping over the neckline of her dress to the swell of her breasts. I run my tongue over my lower lip as I drag my gaze upward.
“Exactly. So that was that.” She sighs. “I keep meaning to send a song I wrote to record labels. But Dad got laid off, and then the stuff with Brandon happened and I just put it on hold. But it’s my dream, so I’ll start again when the time’s right.”
“You want to give up your career?”
She laughs again like I’ve said something funny. Only this time I’m not joking. It takes years of studying to be a teacher, and Tate must be in her mid-twenties. She’s barely begun seeing how much of an impact she can have on kids’ lives.
“But you’re great at it,” I continue. I might not have seen her teach, but I’ve seen her with Molly and there’s no denying the way my little girl looks at her like she hung the moon.
“O-kay.” Tate looks at me like she’s puzzled. “Thanks, I guess.”
I pick up my whiskey and recline in my seat, studying her. “Who’s Brandon?”
The way her chest deflates, and her eyes dim confirms my suspicion.
“Ah, the loser ex,” I say, bringing my glass to my lips and taking a sip.
Tate’s eyes fix on my mouth as I lower the glass, letting it dangle between my fingers as I rest my arm on the side of the seat.
“What did he do?”
She purses her lips, considering my question.
I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She doesn’t like me.
And after my accusations, she probably doesn’t trust me, either.
But the fact she didn’t insist on Cliff taking her home tonight once she realized this evening wasn’t being spent with Molly was a sign that a small part of her is intrigued by me.
She might think accepting my invitation tonight was a way to get to know more about the man whom she’s employed by.
But this evening is as much for me as it is for her.
I need to know more about the woman I’m allowing around my daughter.
Not the things a background check can tell me. The things she won’t put on a form.
I need to know what makes Tate Miller tick. What she loves, craves. What she’s scared of. I need to know everything that my daughter will be exposed to whilst in her company.
“He…” She takes a sip of her drink like she needs courage. “He was fucking another woman, and I walked in on them as he was finishing. Loudly, I might add. He was more enthusiastic than he ever was with me.”
I narrow my eyes and study her. “That bothers you more than the cheating?”
“No. I don’t care. I mean, why would I? That’s a given with cheats, right? That they make more effort for the new person.”
The fire in her eyes is muted by an undercurrent of uncertainty.
“I wasn’t referring to his efforts. I meant, you’re more bothered by the fact he was clearly enjoying having sex with this other woman more than he enjoyed having sex with you,” I state matter of factly.
“What?” She gapes at me like I’m the rudest man she’s ever laid eyes on.
“Tate,” I say, taking my time to place my glass on the table and lean my forearms over my spread thighs until I’m staring straight into her eyes, ready to level with her. “How many guys left their numbers for you at work this week?”
Her nose wrinkles. “That’s not import—”
“How many?”
She shakes her head, looking confused. “I don’t know. Maybe twelve?”
“Twelve,” I repeat slowly, the number making me clench my jaw momentarily.
“And do you know how many of those twelve were imagining how you looked underneath that pink uniform you wear? How many were wondering if your nipples would be more of a pink or a brown? How many were thinking about how they’d feel against the tip of their tongue as they tasted them?
” I allow my eyes to drop to the heaving swell of her cleavage as her breaths grow ragged at my words.
“Do you know how many of them were fantasizing about how loud they’d fucking groan like they’d visited heaven and come back to earth again if you ever gave them the opportunity to fuck you?”
“W-what?” She laughs, stopping abruptly and scanning my serious face.
I nod slowly, driving my point home.
“All of them,” I say. “Every single fucking one.”