Tate was better at hiding his feelings than she gave him credit for since she hadn’t yet figured out how crazy he was about her. Eric hoped she didn’t before she was in too deep to be freaked out by Tate’s personal brand of interest. “I’m an open book, sweetheart.”
“Really? Then why did you just go all caveman on me?”
“Caveman? I’m dancing like Astaire. I didn’t grunt or growl a word.”
“Maybe not, but you looked ready to kill someone. I’ve never seen you like that. You’re usually smooth as silk, even when you’re angry.”
Because he’d been very careful around her. “I didn’t like the thought of some old letch trying to use his position to get you into bed.”
Kellan had a million and one reasons of his own and Tate wouldn’t know how to verbally seduce even a hooker out of her clothes, but Eric was nervous about the whole “boss” thing. He’d never admitted it, but that was one reason he hadn’t made a move, along with the Tate factor…and what she’d likely see as a “ménage surprise.” Despite those multitude of reasons not to go after her, Eric saw only one real reason he should—because he couldn’t stand the thought of never knowing what it meant to make love to her.
“Well, I found you guys, and now I don’t have anything to worry about. You don’t need to bang the secretary. You’ve already worked your way through half of Chicago’s female population.”
Was that bitterness he detected? She’d had a couple of glasses of wine. Belle was always in control, so polished and smooth.
Eric managed to chuckle. “Certainly, it’s not anywhere close to half.”
She shrugged with a little roll of her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. When did you and Tate start sharing your girlfriends?”
It was the first time she’d acknowledged that she knew they took women together. Maybe the ménage wouldn’t be a surprise after all. Had she guessed…or paid attention? Eric wasn’t sure. Belle had asked the question without a hint of disdain, sounding simply like one friend asking another about a curiosity.
Hope started to thrum through his system. He was good at reading body language, seeing past simple words to the hidden meaning beneath. Unlike Tate, most human beings didn’t just throw themselves out there. They talked their way around a problem. They asked questions—just like Belle did. “We were in high school.”
“Are you serious? Gosh, in high school I was worrying about finals and whether or not I would get asked to the prom.”
He wondered if he would have been smart enough to have seen her back then. Probably not. He’d been pretty damn dumb. He hadn’t cared past the next game, the next party, the next lay. “Well, I didn’t worry enough about finals, which is why I ended up meeting Tate.”
“I would have thought you came from different social circles.”
“Completely. Tate’s mom and dad were both academics, professors at the nearby university. His brothers were all into science. I was a dumb jock. My dad drove a truck. My mom was a waitress. All I wanted was to be a quarterback in the NFL.” It seemed funny now. He’d come so far from the narrow path that had once seemed like his only way out of the lower-middle class existence he’d loathed. His dad had coached him to want it more than anything.
She shook her head as though she couldn’t imagine it. “What happened?”
“Algebra II. I got benched because I was flunking math the fall semester of my junior year. My mom was actually happy because I’d had my second concussion that season.” He could still hear his parents arguing as they’d stood in his hospital room. His mom had insisted that he quit football then and there, and his father asked what the hell else his son was good for.
The point had become moot when his Algebra II grade had dipped below passing and he’d been temporarily benched. In need of a tutor, he’d met Tate, a dweeb of the highest order. For whatever reason, something between them had clicked, and they’d fallen into a friendship that had shaped the rest of his life.
“Did you pass?” She sent a curious little smile his way that almost looked flirty.
He would never forget the way it felt when Mr. Zimmer had passed him that final exam. “Ended up with a B. I went on to take calculus. I switched from the normal track to honors classes and I went to college on a scholarship. I thank Tate for that. He taught me that I was smart.”
“And what did you teach him?”
“That he was more than the sum of his knowledge.” He’d been Tate’s first real friend. “His parents hate me to this day because they believe I swayed him to the dark side—in other words, girls.”
“Did you?” Annabelle looked amused.
“No. Tate was always interested in females. He just didn’t think he had a shot. I helped him improve his chances.”
“By sharing girls with him?”
“Not at first. To begin, we started working out together after school. I taught him how to dress. I still haven’t been able to impart any level of smooth talk to him, but it’s cool. I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a Tate who didn’t shove his foot in his mouth three times a day.”
“I like how honest he is.” She swayed as the music changed to a slower beat. “I can always trust what he says because he can’t be bothered to lie. Of course it also means that when I ask him if I look fat in a pair of jeans, I get a percentage. He told me I only looked three percent larger and then went on to explain how the cut of the jeans slightly added to the visual footage. I didn’t understand his calculation, but I stopped buying boot cut jeans anyway.”