Page 22 of Fighting Gravity

Torture, indeed.

At the club, with joy all over her face, Rosie changed his mind.

Oh, Tate still ached to touch her. He yearned to dance behind her and run his hands over her form as she moved to her own pace, slower than the Latin beat. Watching her was far from painful. Rosie was in her own world. Her own league. She was utterly perfect.

They all came to check on him at the table, of course. Chen to goad him, Elle to tease him. Rosie to take sips of her tiki drink and offer him the world’s sweetest smiles. He watched as Chen twirled Rosie in a circle and Elle sauntered his way. She took a deep drink of a colorful cocktail as she stared at him.

“What?”

“I’m reading the minds in the room. People want to know why a man who looks so damn delicious also looks so fuck-off-ish. Every woman is staring at you.”

He moved his gaze to hers. “Every woman but one.”

Elle didn’t look surprised by his admission. In fact, her arched eyebrow looked triumphant.

“Give her time, Tate. She had real trauma in her last relationship.”

Tate’s muscles seized as he stepped closer to Elle. Rosie had said her last relationship hadn’t ended well. Most relationships didn’t. She had not used the word trauma. Had that motherfuckerhurtRosie? “What do you mean?”

“Whoa. Sorry.” Elle’s warm hand met his chest. “Emotional trauma. But it was no less damaging than where your mind just went. Trust is her biggest thing. I can’t break it. It’s her story to tell.”

Tate turned toward the dance floor with a long sigh. Rosie was giggling like mad with Chen. Stumbling a bit, but radiant. “I’ll be here when she wants to tell it.”

“She’s worth the wait.”

“I know.”

When he glanced back at Elle, she was wiping a tear off her cheek. He smiled at her. Rosie was lucky to have a friend who cared so much. Then the woman under discussion collapsed, breathless, in the chair next to him. Chen offered Elle his hand, desire all over his face, and led her onto the dance floor.

Rosie toyed with her drink as she watched them. Smiling, she leaned close to Tate. The cottony smell of her aroused him to no end. “Are you surviving?”

They may have been looking, but not a single woman had approached him. Even better, Elle had kept any lecherous dudes away from Rosie. So far, the night was a win. “I am.”

“What would make your night better?”

He turned so his body was flush with hers, not touching but aligned. “You know the answer to that question.”

She sucked in a breath.

“Hey, truth is all you’ll ever get from me. If you don’t want to know, don’t ask.”

He was learning that honesty was both easier and harder. No confusion, more vulnerability.

“You think I don’t want you, too?”

Tate’s heart started to pound.

“You terrify me,” she admitted, looking away. She stood abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.” But she swayed so far to the left that she had to grip the table to keep from toppling over.

Tate rose to help steady her. She hadn’t even finished her first drink. She’d pounded three beers at the bar and had still kissed him like a fucking dream while exploring his body with steady hands. What was with tonight?

“I know. Sorry. I’m not sure why I’m so dizzy tonight. Maybe rum isn’t my drink.”

“I’m helping you to the bathroom.” Tate held her elbow as they made their way to the back of the bar, past way too much neon and leather. They stacked up in the bathroom line, Tate still holding her arm. He tucked her closer into his body. Each time he glanced at her face, she looked more panicked. He couldn’t tell if she was unhappy with his proximity or if she just really had to pee.

“Something’s wrong,” she blurted out. “Seriously, Tate. How many drinks did I have?”

“Half of one,” he replied. Adrenaline started to seep into his own system from her panic. “Do you think you’re getting sick or—?”

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