Page 17 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)

“Sit down, already, Glo. Or go out to the bunkhouse and find him. But you’re making me dizzy.”

Glo wore her pajama pants and a Belles Are Made for Singing T-shirt, having taken a shower after tonight’s fundraising fiasco, her hair still wet.

Cher sat on the bed, finger combing her wet hair.

Her friend was staying over in one of the other guest rooms and had also showered, changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt.

“I can’t go out there. It’ll just encourage him.”

“I think we’re beyond the need for encouragement here, sister. The man saved your life tonight. I’d say he’s all in.”

All in.

She could still feel Tate’s body pressing over her, feel his heartbeat thumping through his chest.

Hear the tiny grunts of pain he tried to hold in.

Stupid, heroic man. Her eyes burned at the memory of watching him in the office, the muscles in his jaw so tight she could strum them. He’d been in pain.

And not just from his shoulder.

Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t get in the way of you and Slick.

So much hurt in his voice, it put a fist in her gut.

Glo stood at the window. She’d darkened her room so she could look out and now spied at least two security staff prowling the exterior of her mother’s house, one down by the semi-lit pool area. The darkness wouldn’t allow her to make out his features.

It could be Tate.

Or maybe he was inside, still icing his shoulder. The man had worn the ice pack all night, on top of his dress shirt, like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

But he was never more than ten feet from her, even when she pulled Sloan out to the far end of the pool, after the guests started to leave, and told him that yes, she’d accept those dinner plans.

Every word out of her mouth tasted sour.

Especially with Tate standing in the shadows.

Her plan, even to her own mind, sounded desperate, a scene out of a soap opera. But with her mother holding the reins of his employment—and heaven help her, she’d like to know what “deal” they’d struck—her only hope was to make him quit.

So yeah, she’d date Sloan. Hold his hand. She’d draw the line at kissing him, but…the whole idea of hurting Tate still made her ill.

“I’m a terrible person.” Glo ran her hands up her arms and came over to flop on the bed beside Cher. The ceiling fan ran overhead, catching the light of the pool on its gilded blades, cascading it around the room.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

She looked at Cher, who raised a shoulder. “That perfectly handsome, wounded man saved your life tonight. You should be sneaking out in a romantic Romeo and Juliet moment to thank him.”

“They both died.”

“Okay, bad comparison, but certainly the man deserves a little love from the woman he can’t seem to stop chasing.”

“The woman who is going to get him killed if he sticks around. He was inches from getting shot tonight—and not just once. He wasn’t even wearing protective gear—and hello, I’m changing that. Tomorrow, all my security details wear armor. He just hovered over me like a human shield?—”

“Um—”

“If you say that’s his job, I’m kicking you out.”

“Of your life, or just the room? Because I’m hungry and need a kitchen raid.”

Glo rolled her eyes. “C’mon.”

They got up and Glo led the way down the hallway, down the stairs, and across the tile to the massive chef’s kitchen. She left sweaty footprints on the cool tile and stood in the darkness as Cher opened the Sub-Zero fridge, the light cascading over her.

“Did you know Sloan is my mother’s assistant campaign manager?”

Cher pulled out a container of yogurt. “Who’s her manager?”

“The same woman she always uses, Nicole Stevens. She was the one who rounded everyone up and brought in the ensemble to play.”

“The pretty African-American woman?—”

“With the awesome hair, yes. They met in college. Nicole worked as a speechwriter, then as communications director for the governor before she helmed my mother’s mayoral campaign.”

Cher peeled the cover off the yogurt. “So, Sloan is back to stay.”

“We’re going out for dinner tomorrow night.”

Cher licked the wrapper. “Really. So, we are getting back on the horse.”

“No. We’re trying to drive the Lone Ranger away. I’m hoping that the more Tate sees me with Sloan, the angrier he’ll get and quit.”

“Oh, I see. We’re living out country songs IRL. That’s a twist.” She dug the spoon in. “How long before Sloan is on to your evil plan?”

She frowned. “No…it’s not an evil plan. I like Sloan?—”

“Yee-haw.”

“Stop talking about horses!” Glo went to the pantry and opened it. What she wouldn’t do for a box of frozen Ho Hos.

Or better yet, chocolate chip cookies, like Gerri Marshall made on the ranch.

And of course her brain—and stomach—had to go there. Back to the Marshall Triple M, where Tate had taken her dancing and charmed her with games of gin rummy and carried her in his amazing arms after she’d been wounded.

Forget the chocolate chip cookies. She grabbed some Fig Newtons—her mother’s version of comfort food—and returned to the granite island. “Listen. I’m not saying my brilliant plan is Ocean’s Eleven . It’s a simple plot. Annoy him enough that he’ll leave.”

“And in the meantime, break more hearts.” Cher took another spoonful of yogurt, let it slide onto her tongue.

“I won’t break…cut me some slack. I’m trying to save lives here.”

“So is Tate, it seems.”

“Maybe you should leave.”

Cher grinned. But she put the yogurt down and took Glo’s hand. “Sweetie. Why are you trying so hard to push away a man who clearly cares for you? In fact, he would give his life for you. Don’t you get to be happy…oh honey, why are you crying?”

Glo pressed her hand to her mouth, shook her head. “Because I…I’m so scared that I already love him, and…it’s just going to end in disaster.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t…nothing ever works out for me. Maybe I’m one of those people who don’t get to be happy.”

“Of course you get to be happy. That’s crazy?—”

“Is it?” Her mouth tightened. “Take a good look at the debris in my life. Joy. David. Even the Yankee Belles have disbanded.”

“You’re not disbanded?—”

“We could be. It always happens. I dream big, put my heart into something, and it turns to sand in my hands.” She drew in a deep breath. “I just wish…I wish I could just know that everything will be all right.” She stared at her half-eaten Fig Newton. “I’m not a fan.”

“They’re certainly not frozen Ho Hos.” Cher gave her a sad smile. “There’s nothing wrong with dreaming big, Glo. Longing for true love.”

“I found true love once. I don’t know that I can lose it again.”

“You do have a lot of wreckage in your past.”

“Tate can’t be the next casualty.”

Cher blew out a breath. “Okay. So what’s the plan, Danny Ocean?”

“Commence Operation Angry Tate?”

“Can I just say, this is a suicide mission?”

Glo raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Cher nodded toward the sliding glass door, and Glo turned.

The man had the ability to stop her heart in its tracks.

He’d entered the patio area and slid onto a deck chair, bathed in the wan glow of the pool.

He’d changed out of his suit—so, clearly off duty—and wore a pair of jeans, flip-flops, and a black T-shirt.

And another ice pack affixed to his shoulder.

He positioned his chair to angle toward her window. And wore such a dark, fierce expression, it went right through her, to her core.

Steeled her.

The very thought of him sitting out there…all night long…

If she didn’t stay up all night watching him, she might actually sleep.

“‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?’” Cher said, almost breathlessly.

“Stop it.”

“‘It is my lady. Oh, it is my love….’”

Glo slid off the stool, shoved the bag of Fig Newtons back in the pantry, and headed toward the stairs to her bedroom.

But not before she turned for one more look at Tate. He sat with his arms folded, his shoulders bunching, as if he refused to move out of her life.

Yes, this was a suicide mission, at best.