“If you won't talk to them,” Sanders started the next day, walking into the kitchen. “Will you talk to me?”

“What do you want to talk about?” Tate asked, holding out a spoon covered in brownie batter. She held it in front of his face until he took a taste.

“Paris. Last fall. Why you're trying to break up Mr. Hollingsworth and Mrs. Carmichael,” he said. She blinked in surprise.

“Jameson told you about all that?” she asked, dumping the brownie mix into a pan.

“I asked if he had talked to you. He mentioned it. May I ask why you're doing this?” Sanders pressed again. She sighed, opening the oven and sliding the pan inside.

“Because. I'm upset. I'm tired of feeling like people walk all over me. I shouldn't have to ask them to not be together – they should've known better,” she tried to explain. He shook his head.

“Sometimes, it is possible for a person to have no control over the people he likes,” he pointed out, staring at her very hard. She frowned.

“Jameson and I are completely different, he never -,”

“I was talking about me and you, Tatum.”

Well, isn't he just full of surprises.

“What are you saying, Sandy? You don't want to be my friend, but you just can't help it?” she laughed. He nodded, and her laughter dried up pretty quickly.

“When I first met you, I did not like you. I never liked any of the women Jameson brought home. But you wouldn't leave me alone. You talked to me. I grew accustomed to you. And then I started to appreciate you. I looked foward to us spending time together. Now, I'm not even sure how it happened, but I feel like I need to be in your presence. I did not want, nor did I ask, to love you. It just happened. Would you hold that against me?” Sanders stated.

Tate was completely blown away. Sanders loved her? Of course, she knew that he liked her. That they were friends. He had called her his best friend, once. Very touching. But people also referred to their dogs as their best friend – Tatum felt like a spaniel about half the time. But he loved her. Sanders loving anybody was shocking enough, but her ..., she didn't know what to do with that information.

Except feel like the goddamn devil – I am completely unworthy of him.

“Sanders,” she breathed. “I think I hate myself.”

“No you don't. You're just confused. Talk to him, talk to Mr. Hollingsworth,” he urged. She shook her head.

“I can't. I just ..., I feel like this is something I need to do. It's all I think about. Sometimes, I stay awake all night, because I can't stop thinking about ruining things for everyone,” she whispered, glancing at the doorway. Jameson was somewhere in the house.

“You're being overdramatic. Maybe you should see a therapist,” Sanders suggested. She snorted.

“Fuck that.”

“What Jameson did was wrong, but he has apologized. You claim to have forgiven him, but you haven't. If you are going to keep holding it against him, then I personally feel you should not be with him. What Mr. Hollingsworth did was wrong, he should not have kept his relationship a secret – he should have discussed his feelings with you before anything started. But it is not the end of the world. For your sake, for everyone's sake, just talk to people,” he urged.

She stared at the counter top. Of course she should talk to everyone else. The thought ran through her brain a million times. Every time Tate was with Jameson, it was on the tip of her tongue. If anyone would understand an uncontrollable urge to hurt people, it would be Jameson. But she couldn't talk to him – she wanted to hurt him, too.

She wanted blood.

“I get it. I really do. And I'll snap out of it, I promise. No more sneaking Ang into the house, no more dirty tricks while you guys are gone,” she promised. She hated lying to Sanders, so she kept her options open without being specific. He sighed.

“I honestly think you'd -,” he started to say, but then Jameson walked into the room.

“Think she'd what, Sanders?” he asked, moving to stand between them. Tate shrugged and put the brownie spoon in her mouth.

“I think if she keeps eating sweets the way she has been, her weight is going to balloon out of control,” Sanders replied, then marched out of the room. Tate stared after him.

Was that ..., did he just ..., was that a dig!? Did Sanders just snap at me, in Sanders-speak!? Good for you, Sandy.

“Am I getting fat!?” she exclaimed, turning to look down at her ass.

No matter what was going on in her life, she always tried to make it a point to exercise, in some fashion, at least twice a week. In Spain, she had jogged up and down the marina. In Weston, she used a small gym that Jameson had put into a spare room. She couldn't be getting fat! She turned in a circle, trying to judge.

“Your ass is perfect, he's being rude. You've upset him. What were guys talking about?” Jameson asked, leaning against the island.

“Ang,” she replied. Jameson hung his head.

“Fuck, I just cannot get away from that guy.”

“You're the one who blabbed all of our pillow talk to Sandy. Do you throw in the dirty stuff, too?” Tate asked, licking the spoon clean.

“Only if he's been very good. Let's get out of here,” Jameson suddenly said.

“But I just put brownies in,” Tate told him, gesturing to the oven. He moved to stand in front of her and ran his finger along the inside of the bowl she'd used to make the batter.