“How many times have you been to Marbella?” she asked as they waited to board their flight to Malaga. From there, he told her that they would drive to their final destination.
“Many times, though I haven't been there in over a year,” Sanders replied.
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Enough to get by.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“Enough to get by.”
She punched him in the arm.
Sanders had booked them first class the whole way, but the plane they took to Malaga was so nice, Tate almost wondered if she should take her shoes off before stepping inside. She sank into her cushy seat and sighed, rolling her head back and forth. When she opened her eyes, Sanders was staring at her.
“You do trust me, don't you?” he suddenly asked. She blinked, and guilt washed over her.
“Of course I trust you, Sandy. You're the most open, honest person I know. Sometimes, I don't feel worthy of your friendship,” Tate replied, reaching over and holding his hand. He squeezed her fingers back.
“You are very worthy of it, but thank you. I am glad you trust me. Everything I have ever done has been to help you, since that night,” he assured her.
Where is this going?
“I know that.”
“Good. Just ..., I just wanted you to know that,” Sanders stammered a little, and then looked away from her. But he didn't let go of her hand.
Tate hadn't really slept on the seven hour flight to Paris, but she conked out for the first hour of their next leg. When she woke up, the flight attendants were bringing around drinks. At first they tried speaking to her in Spanish, then switched to English.
“Would you care for some champagne?” the attendant inquired in a lilting French accent. Tate shook her head.
“No, no thank you.”
“And your husband?”
Tate almost burst out laughing, glancing at Sanders. He had his head tilted back and his eyes closed, dead asleep. His arms were folded across his chest. Prim and proper, even in his sleep.
“I think he's fine. He's not my husband, just a good friend,” Tate explained. The attendant laughed.
“Oh, madam, he is much too handsome to be just a friend,” she laughed, then winked at Tate before moving on down the aisle.
Tate took another look at Sanders. He was a very good looking man. He had a slender frame and wasn't particularly tall, but his face had that Look – like a Louis Vuitton runway model. Fair skin, full lips, defined jaw. Almost androgynous, but not quite. Pretty was a word that often came to her mind when thinking of him. Sanders was a very pretty man. She had never been physically attracted to him herself, but she thought it was funny when she was with him, watching other women do double takes. It was the same thing with Ang. Apparently Tate only surrounded herself with good looking men, because Satan was the best looking of them all, and Nick was no slouch, either.
Nick. She sighed and glanced at her phone. He had texted her, during their brief stop in Paris. He had not been happy about her leaving. After their highly publicized little lip-lock, he had gone back to Iowa to spend Christmas with his family. He had invited her, but Tate had figured that was a bad idea on a cosmic scale.
Apparently saying he wasn't going to press his attentions on her really meant he wouldn't bother her about it unless she was out of his sight. Now Nick was making his feelings known, very vehemently. He cared about Tate. He thought they made a great team, a great couple. They already knew they were physically compatible. What was the problem? Was it him?
The problem was ..., she didn't know what her problem was, Tate just knew she couldn't be with him. Not that way. She hadn't told Sanders any of it, because she knew he would just tell her to end the friendship. And she didn't want to do that. She opened her text messages.
Please tell me you have spent at least half as much time thinking about me as I have about you.
Tate hadn't texted him back, because she hadn't been thinking about him. God, she was an awful person. A horrible, awful person. She cared about Nick a lot, but just as a friend. She had no desire for it to be anything more.
She looked around at the other men sitting in first class. She wondered if she would ever want “anything more” with someone else. She hadn't slept with anyone in almost three months. Her longest dry spell since she had run away to Boston, seven years ago. Men and sex were so far off her radar, she was practically a nun.
She actually laughed out loud at that thought.
When they got off the plane in Malaga, Tate teased Sanders about falling asleep. He was such a highly strung person, imagining him nodding off in front of people was hard, but he'd been out like a light for the whole ride. He wouldn't meet her eyes as they picked up their luggage.
“I have been under a lot of stress lately,” he replied. She stopped smiling.
“Really? Is it because of the trip?” she worried out loud. He shook his head.
“No. Just some ..., work issues,” was all he said, then he started heading out of the baggage area.
It wasn't until they were through customs and actually walking outside that she was able to question him about his “work issues” – as far as she knew, Sanders didn't have a job. He had worked as Jameson's personal assistant, but the title was more for him than out of necessity. Jameson paid for everything. The Bentley, Sanders' clothes, his living situation, everything. And after Jameson had kicked Tate out of the house, Sanders had quit. Moved out. The two had made up, but Tate knew Sanders had refused to work for him again. So what was he talking about?