“Why on earth would I be mad at you, Tate? For speaking your mind? I love it when you're a bitch,” he reminded her. She started to laugh as well, but then he saw the tears.

“I just don't get it,” she squeaked out. “What did I ever do to him? I never did anything. I used to do everything they wanted. How can you hate someone you don't even know?”

“Because he's miserable, baby girl, so he wants everyone around him to be miserable,” Jameson explained. She sniffled and wiped at her face.

“Well, he does a damn good job of it, cause I feel pretty fucking miserable,” her voice finally cracked at the end, and the tears couldn't be stopped. Jameson pulled her into a hug.

“Don't say that. You have me. You don't need him. I'm sorry I did this,” he whispered, rubbing his hands up and down her back.

“It's not your fault. I just …, hate him, Jameson. I really, really hate him, and I don't want to. I don't even want to know him. I don't want to be related to him,” she cried, locking her arms around his waist.

“It's done. You said what you wanted to say. You never have to see him again.”

“I swear to god,” she groaned, finally catching her breath, “I'm changing my name when we get home. I don't even want to be an O'Shea anymore. I don't want that name. I don't want that connection.”

Jameson took a deep breath. Pressed his face into her hair.

“Sounds good to me.”

*

Tate woke up in the middle of the night to discover she was alone. She thought about getting up and looking for Jameson, but she was too exhausted. Meeting with her family had been draining. Jameson had all but carried her up to the room, undressed her, then tucked them both into bed. She fell asleep with him wrapped around her, warm and comfortable.

Figuring she was better off not knowing what nefarious deeds he was up to, Tate went back to sleep.

In the morning, she woke up feeling somewhat refreshed. She'd never actually had an outburst like that with her father. Sure, she'd snapped at him, that one time Jameson had taken her home. But to actually say how she felt, say everything she'd ever sort of wanted to say; it felt good. She felt like she had finally closed a chapter. So when she got out of bed, she almost skipped into the living room.

“I thought you were going to sleep the day away,” Jameson commented as he munched on toast at the breakfast table.

“Thought about it,” she replied, kissing him on the cheek before sitting down across from him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, not looking away from his newspaper. Tate shrugged and plucked some bacon off of his plate.

“Surprisingly good,” she told him, stuffing the food into her mouth. “I mean, last night I kind of wanted to puke. But now, it's like …, gone. You know?”

“Good. I'm glad.”

“Where were you last night? I woke up and you were gone,” Tate said, then reached over and stole a piece of toast.

“I had stuff to do.”

“At three in the morning?”

She took another piece of bacon.

“There is an entire spread over there,” Jameson pointed out, finally looking away from his paper. “Why do you always take my food?”

“Cause it tastes better when I steal it from you,” she teased.

“God, I almost prefer you when you're depressed and crying.”

“Fucker.”

“Always.”

“So where were you?” Tate tried again, polishing off all his bacon.

“I told you, I had some business. It was states side, hence the early hour,” Jameson answered cryptically. Tate narrowed her eyes and grabbed a fork, began picking at his scrambled eggs.

“What kind of business?” she asked suspiciously. Something about his answers made her nervous. He was keeping something from her.

“Bad business,” he answered, then stood up. He picked up his plate and sat it in front of her.

“Oh god. Just tell me now, am I being sold into slavery?” Tate groaned. He chuckled.

“No. Just some trash that needed to be taken care of, Liebe. Nothing for you to worry about,” he assured her, then kissed her on the head before going into the bedroom.

Hmmm. Still don't trust him.

Tate finished breakfast and was fully prepared to rape him in the shower, but she was informed that she needed to get ready. They were meeting an acquaintance of his for doubles tennis. Tennis. Tate actually laughed.

“Is this a joke?”

“Nope. Tell Angier he needs to be ready in an hour.”

“Angier won't even know which end of the racket to hold.”

“Good thing he's on your team, then.”

Tate hadn't played tennis since high school. Ang had never played tennis. When she woke him up and told him what they'd be doing, he looked at her like she was crazy, but she promised that it would be fun. She was going to wear her Serena Williams-esque shorts, so at least his view would be nice during the game.

“Does Jameson like tennis?” Ang asked as she brought him coffee in bed.

“I've never even seen him play tennis,” she replied.

It took some coaxing, but eventually Ang got out of bed and put on some shorts and a t-shirt. Tate ruffled his hair and he piggy-backed her all the way to her suite. Jameson was waiting inside, also in shorts and a t-shirt, a black hat shoved low over his eyes. He glared at them as they galloped around the room, but didn't say anything. Tate got changed into her gear, then they headed out.