“What are you doing?” she asked with a laugh. The row boat was old, wooden, with peeling paint. A piece of shit. It had two bench seats stretching across the middle, and a pair of ancient oars rested in the bottom of it.
“I bought this off a guy this morning. I figured you and Sanders could use it to tool around in, if you wanted. If I can get this motor working,” Jameson explained. She laughed again.
“Oh, I'm sure Sandy will love this plan. Permission to come aboard?” she asked.
“By all means.”
He didn't offer to help. Shocker. Tate slid off the cement, trying to balance on her toes. When she felt secure, she let go and stepped into the boat. It rocked under her, but didn't throw her, so she sat down on the open bench. Straightened out her tie. Rolled up her sleeves.
“Why don't you just by a new engine?” she asked. He snorted.
“Because this one might still work. I know you think I'm some rich asshole, Tate, but if something can be fixed, I don't just go out and buy a new one anyway,” he snapped. She raised her eyebrows.
“Nice tone. Sounds like someone else woke up freaking out this morning,” she called him out. Jameson finally laughed.
“This motor is a bitch. I finally get you to be compliant, and then something else gives me shit. Story of my life,” he joked, finally turning around.
Tate wasn't sure who looked more shocked, him or her. Jameson's eyes were wide as he took in her outfit, but her jaw dropped as she took in what he was wearing. Glasses. Jameson. In glasses. They were narrow black frames, and the glare from the sun hid his blue eyes.
“You wear glasses!?” she exclaimed.
“Contacts. The question is, what the fuck are you wearing?” he asked.
“I never knew you wore contacts, and I never saw a pair of glasses in your house,” she argued.
“They were in there, I assure you. Why are you wearing my clothing?” Jameson asked again.
“I'm sorry, I can't. Glasses,” Tate mumbled.
It changed his face so much. He looked so serious. Scholarly. Like a sexy professor. A whole new encyclopedia of fantasies and fetishes poured through her head. Did she pack a pleated skirt? How quickly could she get one? Would Jameson be in to role playing? He would be, once he saw her dressed up as a naughty school girl ...,
“Tate,” he snapped his fingers in front of her face. She reached out and slid the frames off of his face. Inspected them.
“Why are you wearing them now?” she asked, turning them over in her hands.
“Someone shoved me into salt water, then I slept in my contacts. My eyeballs feel like they've been stepped on,” he replied, glaring at her. Tate glanced at him.
“Do you need them to see?” she asked. Jameson shook his head.
“I'm not blind, I can see. They just help,” he replied, his eyes wandering down her body. She licked her lips and glanced at the oars.
“Let's take this baby for a spin,” she suddenly suggested. He laughed.
“I suppose you didn't notice, but all this shit around my feet? That's the engine. This baby isn't going anywhere,” he assured her. Tate rolled her eyes.
“And what are these?” she pointed out, tapping a pointed foot against an oar. He raised his eyebrows.
“You want me to row your ass around this marina?” he clarified.
When Tate tried to put the oars in the water herself, Jameson's manly pride kicked in and he took over. She was sitting with her back to the bow, so she leaned back, resting her elbows on the sides of the boat while she put her feet in his lap. She put his glasses on and closed her eyes, soaking in the sun.
“See? This is nice,” she told him, sighing. He grunted.
“Easy for you to say. I'm doing all the fucking work,” he pointed out. She laughed.
“What are all those muscles for, just show? Row faster,” she said saucily.
“Watch it.”
He kept it up for quite a while, she was impressed. But after they were well away from the harbor, Jameson had to stop. He had sliced his finger open on the engine earlier, and a small stream of blood was running down his forearm, mixing with the engine grease that was coating him from finger tip to elbow. He let the waves carry them farther out to sea while he inspected the wound.
“We should've brought an anchor,” Tate commented. Jameson flicked his eyes to her.
“So you could finish the job?” he asked. She laughed.
“Big bad Jameson, so scared of me,” she teased.
“I'm always scared of you. What's with the outfit?” he asked. She slid her hand down the tie, waving the end of it at him.
“You don't like?”
“I like it very much – hence why I bought it. Looks good on you.”
“Thank you.”
“Tate. I'm letting you wear clothing that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe. I rowed you out to the middle of nowhere. What's your game?” he asked. She sat upright, made a production of straightening the tie.
“As Freud would say,” she started, putting on a heavy Austrian accent, “tell me about your mother.”
“Excuse me?” Jameson asked, sitting upright. Tate adjusted his glasses on her nose, looking over the top of them to see him.
“Tell me about your relationship with your mother,” she asked, again in an accent.
“Why the fuck do you want to know about my mother?” he demanded. Tate sighed.