Rush and Restraint

Chapter Six

I bit back a curse the moment I stepped out of Pete's Tavern to a blast of bone-chilling wind.

Despite the alcohol warming my belly from the several drinks I had with some friends at one of the oldest taverns in the city, my teeth chattered at the cold. The luxurious, military-inspired red wool coat I'd thrown over my figure-hugging sweater dress and black tights was warm but it wouldn't hold in this continually plunging temperature for very long.

I stood there for five minutes, trying to flag down a taxi despite knowing that on a brutally cold Saturday night in New York City, it was going to be tough.

"Vivienne, I'll drive you home."

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Tate stepping through the door and turning up the collar of his navy blue coat. Vapor escaped his lips but he still looked quite dashing in the dark coat, his golden brown hair tousled and falling over his brows. Even with a slight frown, he looked like a damned nice guy. Which he was. Considering the merry chase I led him tonight, the fact that he wasn't swearing me off yet or shoving me in front of a speeding car indicated the extent of his apparently enduring patience with me. It reminded me of the last person I wanted to think about tonight, when I was as feeling almost as sloshed as the last cocktail I had.

"I can take care of myself just fine, Tate. Thank you," I said firmly, rocking back on my heels and flinging an arm out again as more cabs sped past. "I get it—you're a gentleman—and despite evidence to the contrary, I appreciate it but I expect you to have limits."

Which I apparently should've anticipated for myself as well, despite the very strong vindictive streak that possessed me tonight.

In the last few days, knowing it wouldn't be long before Oliver finally tracked me down to my new studio apartment, I took myself off to different places to try and dodge him. Hanging out with Tate for lunch, dinner and the weekend seemed to be the best workaround. He was happy to tag along and stopped asking questions the minute it became clear, in not so many words, that I didn't wish to explain myself. It was utterly selfish, of course, but I felt like being selfish. It felt good—somehow believing that I wasn't a complete pity-case even though in the back of my head, I knew, such childish acts only ever proved the opposite.

God, even in my misery, I'm way too logical.

It absolutely took the fun out of it but I wasn't prepared to give up just yet.

Tonight, I came with Tate to have some drinks with a few mutual friends, with him hovering around me possessively like an actual boyfriend. I didn't mind it. I actually let myself enjoy it for a little bit.

I was young and beautiful and had my entire life ahead of me.

Being married, impulsively and with great foolishness, was simply one of the bad mistakes any young twenty-something was due to make. The acknowledgement that I wasn't always so smart gave me this false sense of freedom to act more unwisely, leading up to the half a dozen or so tequila shots I'd gulped down fast. Buzzed, brazen and not feeling so heartbroken anymore, I grabbed Tate and ground my body against his to the music. Right in front of everyone in the group, I pulled his face down and mauled his mouth for a kiss that lasted a good minute or so. I started to enjoy it, feeling the fringes of that familiar pleasure from the intimacy until a totally different face swam up to my brain—crystal blue eyes sparkling, full mouth smiling. The mortification dropped on me like a bucket of ice water and I pulled away, gasping in what really sounded like horror as our small, immediate audience halted their hoots and calls. When Tate's coffee brown eyes fluttered open to gaze at me with such soft, sweet desire, my hand jerked and before I realized what I was doing, my palm made contact with his face in a stinging slap.