Page 61 of After All This Time

I'm not stupid.Tate'sreputation isn't just talk—rumors aren't just rumors when they're backed by a body count of broken hearts. I know Tobias wasn't wrong about him and that he probably thrives on this kind of attention, the whispers and stares that follow him. And here I am, feeding his ego like I've got nothing better to do with my night.

"So talk to me, Amelia. Tell me about yourself,"Tate says, leaning back in his chair.

"You haven't been asking Logan?"

"I asked him the necessary questions."

"And those would be?"

He leans in slightly as if preparing to reveal some dark, dirty secret. "You know, the deal-breakers. Are you gonna go full psycho on my Harley if another girl so much as looks my way? Any evil twins I should know about?"

I side-eye him, unable to stop the laugh that slips out. "Ah, I see—all the important shit, then."I cross one leg over the other, settling back in my seat.

"A man's gotta have standards,"he replies, grinning wider, proud of his very questionable priorities.

"What about you?"I sip my drink, the vodka burning against my tongue. "Should I be worried about your level of crazy?"

"I'm exactly the right kind of crazy,"he says with a shrug, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "But crazy can be fun."

This hour with Tate feels like watching paint dry in slow motion. We're barely sixty minutes in, and I'm already fantasizing about peeling off this dress and slipping into my sweatpants.

He's objectively attractive in a way that ticks a few of my superficial boxes. But that's where it ends. There's no spark, no heat—just a guy and a drink and an hour of my life I'll never get back.

When he heads to the bar for another beer, I exhale like I've been holding my breath underwater. My phone's in my hand before I can think better of it, and there it is—Tobias's name sitting at the top of my messages.

TOBIAS

I've ordered pizza. I didn't know if you'd be hungry when you got home, so I got you a small cheese. Your lasagna tasted like ass.

A laugh slips out before I can stop it, already bracing myself for his next message.

TOBIAS

I'm kidding—it was amazing. But seriously, your idea of leftovers could feed a toddler at best. I'll leave your pizza out on the side.

"You're smiling at your phone?" An older woman's voice cuts through my focus. When I glance up, she's standing besidemy table, a glass of wine in hand and an amused tilt to her immaculate red-painted lips. "That's usually because of a guy."

"It is a guy, but it's not like that."

She laughs softly, shaking her head like I've just said the most adorably naïve thing she's ever heard. "Oh, honey, it's always like that."

Before I can stammer out a denial, she throws me a wink and saunters off. I watch as she approaches a guy leaning against the bar—he's tall, broad-shouldered, and probably my age, give or take a few years.

But she owns it—doesn't even register the whispers rippling through the room or the stares burning into her back.

Good for her.

The realization hits like a cold slap of clarity: I don't have to be here. I don't have to play nice, endure small talk, or pretend this is something it isn't.

I stuff my phone away and stand, done pretending this drink with Tate is anything but a well-intentioned mistake. He spots me heading for the bar and straightens up, his smirk already in place.

But all I can think about is a cheese pizza waiting on my counter and the man who knows exactly how I like it. The man who's probably sprawled on our couch right now, pretending he's not keeping one eye on the door.

"Right, I'm gonna go," I say, stopping just shy of the counter.

"Already? I thought we were just getting started."

"I said one drink. This"—I gesture to my empty glass—"was one drink."

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