“Oh geez, what happened to 'I'm over having sex', Mr. Jaded-One? Pffft, having foursomes. Over sex, my ass,” Tate kept shoveling sand at him.

“Okay, maybe 'over it' was an exaggeration. Stop!” he shouted, shoving sand back at her.

“How come we never had a foursome?” Tate demanded, turning her head away and just blindly flinging sand.

“Hey, I tried! Remember that open house we went to!?” Ang reminded her, and then a handful of sand hit her in the chest.

“Angier! I was not going to fuck some random couple at a house viewing! We were there for the free food!” Tate shouted.

“You were always too prudish for me, thank god Satan came along,” he teased.

Tate gasped and turned to face him, only to get sand thrown in her open mouth. While she gagged and coughed, Ang tackled her to the ground. They rolled around in the sand, limbs flailing, struggling to shove as much sand as they could into each others' clothing.

“I can't breathe,” Tate hacked as he pinned her arms above her head and straddled her waist.

“Do you give?” he asked, gripping both her wrists with one hand while his free hand scooped up more sand.

“I give, I give, you win, get off of me,” she begged, rolling her hips.

“Hmmm, now that I've got you at my disposal …,” Ang murmured.

“Stop it,” Tate laughed.

“All this talk of foursomes has gotten me pretty worked up,” he told her.

“Please. You couldn't handle me, I'm way freakier now then when we used to sleep together,” she taunted.

“I'd like to test that theory.”

“Pffft, too bad.”

“Ahem.”

They both snapped their heads up to see Sanders standing behind them.

“Ang is being an ass!” Tate whined.

“Tate's refusing to sleep with me!” Ang whined as well.

“The 'ass' part I believe,” Sanders started. “Tate refusing to sleep with somebody, however, is somewhat shocking.”

They all laughed at that one, and Ang got off of her. After they had shaken most of the sand out of their bathing suits, they headed back to the car. She hadn't realized she'd slept so much; they'd been at the beach for almost three hours.

“What're we doing for dinner? I'm starving,” Tate groaned, struggling to yank a tank top over her head.

“Jameson has something planned for the two of you. Mr. Hollingsworth and I will be dining in our rooms,” Sanders explained.

“What!?” Tate exclaimed, popping her head through the neck hole. “Ang flew a bajillion miles to be here, at a moment's notice! He's coming to dinner with us.”

“It's fine, Tate, I can just -,” Ang started.

“The reservations are specially made, they can't be changed. I am very sorry,” Sanders interrupted.

“This doesn't make sense. Why did Jameson fly him all the way here, just to leave him out? When we get back, I'm going to inform Mr. Man that Ang will be dining with us,” Tate said.

“Jameson isn't at the hotel.”

“Huh?”

“He's not there. His appointment ran late. He will be meeting you at dinner.”

Tate groaned.

The whole time she was getting ready, she didn't stop thinking about it. Why invite Ang, but then not want him around? She knew Jameson didn't like him, but he couldn't avoid him the whole time they were there, it would be ridiculous. But since he had flown Ang halfway across the world, Tate decided she could let it slide. For at least one night.

Tate shimmied her way into a tight, designer dress, and took care with her makeup. She didn't doubt that they would be eating at a nice restaurant and wanted to look up to par with Jameson.

She was shocked when Sanders pulled up in front of the restaurant and Jameson was waiting outside. He never waited for her. Usually when they met for dinner, he was already seated and working on his first drink. Or his actual meal, depending on how late she was running. But there he was, walking up to the curb and opening her door.

“What are you doing?” Tate blurted out, staring up at him. She tried to remember the last time he'd held open a door for her.

“Being a gentleman,” he replied, holding out his hand.

Tate burst out laughing.

“Can you even spell that word?”

“Get out of the fucking car.”

Tate stumbled a little as he yanked her out, still laughing. They said goodbye to Sanders, then made their way inside. But before they could make it past the entrance way, Jameson pulled her to a stop.

“What? Is there something on my dress?” Tate asked, looking down at herself. He was staring at her in the strangest way.

“No. You look perfect. I wanted to tell you that, before we went in,” he said. She snorted and looked up at him.

“Are you feeling okay?” she chuckled, pressing her hand to his forehead. He pushed her away.

“Yes. Just … you know everything I do for you, I do out of love, yes?” he questioned.

Funny time was over.

“Okay, now you're scaring me.”

“Shut up,” Jameson snapped, then put a hand on her back, guiding her forward. “I'm just trying to warn you. This is for your own good. Something that needed to happen.”

Tate went to reply, went to ask him what the hell was going on. But then they turned a corner, and all the breath left her body. She stopped moving and he pressed up against her from behind.