The Love Hater: Chapter 17

“Your father called while you were in your meeting. He wanted to know if you had your usual plans this evening?”

Cara’s attention snags on the trash can in the corner, and the mounting pile of takeaway coffee cups inside it as she stands in the doorway of my office.

It’s Thursday. My father will be wondering if he’s keeping Molly tonight for a sleepover. It’s been a few weeks since I participated in my usual Thursday night activities at The Lanceford. Natasha calling, the deal with Fabienne, then hiring Tate and all the trouble that’s come with that… all mean that I haven’t even thought about going there.

“I’ll call him back,” I reply as I continue typing an email.

Cara’s continued presence makes me glance up, and she mistakes our brief eye contact as an invitation to approach my desk.

“I love your office,” she hums, gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the city in all its glory. “You should turn your desk around so you’re facing the view. It’s pretty incredible from here.”

I ignore her. She’s been here long enough to know why I would never do that. The position of my desk gives me a direct line of sight into the opposite office where Molly plays when she’s here.

Cara rounds the desk and stops beside me, resting her ass against the glass top. Strong musky perfume wafts around her like a cloud and she leans a little closer.

“Are you okay? You look tense?”

I stop typing and let out an irritated sigh.

“I could help. I’m good at massage. I did a course.” She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently through my shirt.

“Do you have Miss Miller’s new number?”

“The coffee girl?” She wrinkles her nose. “No, why do you⁠—”

“In that case, you can get back to work. Close the door on your way out.”

She yanks her hand away immediately and collects herself with a brief, embarrassed sniff. “Of course, Mr. Beaufort. Please excuse me.”

The door clicks behind her, and I sink back in my seat, steepling my fingers beneath my chin. With any luck, Arabella will return to work soon. That’ll solve two problems. Firstly, Cara will be gone, and I’ll no longer question whether she’s about to drop to her knees and offer to suck my dick in my office. A line I would never cross with an employee. I have the suite at The Lanceford for a reason. And secondly, I will no longer need to consider who can help with Molly, seeing as Miss Miller is intent on playing this silly little game of coffee bingo with me.

Five days. Five numbers. Minus the weekend because she wasn’t on shift. I asked Cliff to drive by and check.

I’m down to the final two digits before I have her entire phone number. Her boss already blocked my office and mobile numbers from their landline, so I’ve had to resort to playing along. I should have bought their damn building. Then they’d have had to unblock my number. But the paperwork would have taken too long.

I want her back now.

I run my steepled fingers over my lips and stare at my desk phone. Those final two digits would mean what? One hundred possible combinations? And that’s if the numbers I’ve already collected have been provided in the correct order.

Twenty minutes until my next meeting starts.

I sit forward and grab the phone, punching in the first five memorized digits.

I clear my throat as Cliff opens the rear door.

Fifty-seven minutes, uncounted wrong numbers, three guys who swore at me before hanging up, one death threat if I called back, and one lonely woman who kept me talking for eleven minutes about her pet parrot’s bowel movements.

But I did it.

I’m here.

She’s here.

I wanted her back. And I wasn’t stopping until I had her.

The scent of her reaches me first as she lowers herself into the backseat, thanking Cliff as she does. Her blue eyes avoid mine, instead searching the backseat, like she expects to see my daughter. But she’s with my father and Halliday again this evening. My father chuckled when I told him what I was doing. He doesn’t know who I’m with, only that it’s a woman and it’s a Friday evening, not a Thursday. That seemed more than enough for him to happily volunteer to watch Molly overnight.

“Molly’s with her grandfather.”

“Oh.”

The defiance that was in Tate’s voice when I finally got her number right yesterday and she answered my call is gone. And in its place is the hesitation I’m more accustomed to from her. She asked how I knew she was innocent, and I told her I’d found the ring. That it was where I kept it all along, but my own idiocy made me miss it.

I admitted I hate being wrong and rarely apologize—but I’d keep calling until I got the chance.

“You said to wear something smart. I thought I’d be watching Molly while you attend a work dinner?” Her eyes flick to mine and something sharp pokes me in the chest then disappears.

She reaches for the door handle like she’s about to climb out.

“Tate, please.”

The undisguised tinge of desperation in my voice surprises me, and I clear my throat as she turns back and finally looks at me properly.

I apologized again when I finally got through to her on the phone yesterday. I could sense she was waning, the anger in her voice had all but gone and been replaced by what sounded like defeat. I descended on it like a shark making its kill.

I wanted her back. And I wasn’t ending that call until I had her.

“I accept that my treatment of you hasn’t been how I like to conduct myself,” I say. My throat feels like it’s full of razor blades. “Tonight is my further apology for that. And I hope that afterward we can move forward like adults.”

“You accused me of stealing from you.” She scoffs, perching stiffly in her seat.

My chest relaxes as Cliff pulls out into the evening traffic. She can’t get out now.

I cast my eyes down to her strappy heels, before inching them up her bare legs and over the black velvet dress that crosses over at the front, wrapping around each breast.

“A mistake I am genuinely disappointed in myself for making,” I say sincerely, continuing my slow appraisal of her. “You look… very beautiful. That dress suits you.”

Her eyes pop wide, two small patches of rouge blushing her cheeks. “You mean, it’s not distracting because I’m too big for it?”

There’s a hint of distrust in her voice, laced with the sparky attitude I now know she has, despite keeping it mostly hidden.

“If I recall correctly, I never once said your uniform was a distraction because you were ‘too big’ for it.”

“Mm,” she mutters.

The urge to grasp her chin and make her look at me when I’m speaking to her wraps around my throat like a fist.

“I believe my words were, incite inappropriate reactions,” I clip.

“What’s that even mean?” She flicks her attention to me and I ignore the warning sirens in my head telling me to look away.

I drink her in again, not caring if I lack subtlety. She’s a smoke show tonight. Curves for days, eyes with a new fire in them, a decadent floral scent emanating from her that’s growing more alluring with each passing second.

I wet my lips. “It means ones that incite reactions that are inappropriate between a boss and an employee.”

Her painted red lips part and her eyes drop to my groin before she frowns like she’s chasing away an irrational thought. She drops her focus to her folded hands in her lap instead.

“Thank you for agreeing to me taking you out for a drink tonight,” I say sincerely.

“A drink? So that’s what we’re doing? I didn’t exactly have a choice. I thought Molly needed me. I wouldn’t have said yes if…” She looks at me quickly, then away again just as fast. She sighs. “Is she really asking after me? Or was it a ploy to make me agree to come tonight?”

“She is asking,” I admit, part of me hating that my daughter keeps pointing every time she sees a coffee cup or a bunny, and her voice lifts with hope as she says, “We see Tate?”

I don’t make a habit of manipulating people’s emotions to get what I want—but I was right to assume the only way to reach Tate was through Molly. Molly’s taken to her. And I don’t have time to hire someone new. I know full well that if it weren’t for Molly, Tate wouldn’t have agreed to come back at all.

When I finally got her on the phone, she didn’t ask for more money—like I would have. She just demanded I treat her with respect if she returned.

I wish she’d asked for the money. That would’ve been easier than knowing how deeply she’s come to care for my daughter—and how much Molly clearly cares for her in return.

That realization hit me like a giant neon sign.

But I’ll unpack that shit later.

Right now, I need her. So she’s about to find out just how respectful I can be.

The car pulls over and I climb out as Cliff does the same, opening Tate’s door for her. I’m waiting at her door, hand outstretched, ready to help her climb out.

She stares at my hand for a beat like it’s the jaws of an alligator, before she slides her fingers over my palm. I assist her out of the car.

“Do you like music?”

Her pupils dilate and she sucks in a quick breath. “Music?”

“Piano, specifically.”

“Y-yes.” Her eyes dart to the building behind me and her brow wrinkles.

“Good.” I nod at Cliff, dismissing him. He’ll come back later when I call.

I slide my hand to Tate’s lower back and lead her toward the entrance. “This is my father’s club. It’s just reopened following an arson attack. You’re one of the first people to see the new décor.”

The doorman opens the large gold-handled door for us, and I sweep Tate inside the low-lit hallway. Another doorman opens a door at the end for us, and we enter the main bar.

“Holy cow.” She gasps.

My fingers flex against her lower back and I can’t stop my lips twitching at her reaction. It warrants it. The design company who headed up the re-model has done an outstanding job.

The sultry room—with a glamorous thirties era feel to it—is like stepping onto a movie set. A long bar with a smoky glass wall behind it runs along the length of one wall, and intimate tables with plush velvet seating are placed strategically around the room with enough space between them that conversations remain private.

Privacy is paramount in Seasons. Presidents drink here. Royalty drinks here. The top people in their fields all drink here. My father created a safe haven for those plagued by having their every move watched and scrutinized. Here, they’re free of all constraints.

Here, they can lose themselves in the music and just be.

I lead Tate toward a table tucked away in a candlelit corner near the stage. Her head swivels as she admires the chandeliers hanging overhead, but it’s the grand piano on stage that stops her in her tracks.

She stands, enthralled, in the center of the seating area, her eyes transfixed on Vincent as he plays a Debussy piece with skilled ease.

“He’s amazing,” she breathes.

“He’s our resident pianist. He studied at Julliard.”

We stand, watching. Tate seems to be in a trance, and it’s only after Vincent plays the final notes that she allows me to lead her the remainder of the way to our table.

“It’s really beautiful in here. It’s like a dream,” she says, looking around as I pull her seat out for her.

“It was my father’s vision. I’ll tell him you said so, he’ll be pleased.”

We order drinks, and I don’t engage with Tate until the server returns with them. She’s too lost in her own world, listening to Vincent play another song. Something about the way her breath hitches along with the crescendos of the music and her eyes mist like it’s speaking directly to her soul has me spellbound.

I’m accustomed to seeing women’s faces when they’re experiencing pleasure.

But Tate is a different vision entirely.

My attention drops to the plastic bracelet on her wrist as we clink our glasses.

“I know it doesn’t fit with the vibe of this place,” she says, sipping her drink, then placing it down quickly so she can cover the bracelet with her hand after noticing me studying it. She strokes it gently with her thumb. “But I wear it all the time. I won it at the fair when I was with my mom. It’s the last day we had out together before she died.”

Jesus, I’m a bigger asshole than I thought.

I swallow my whiskey and place my glass down. “I’m sorry. What happened to her?”

Tate rubs her bracelet, smiling sadly. “Brain hemorrhage. No warning. One moment she was here. The next…” She shrugs.

“I understand what that’s like.”

She lifts her eyes to my face. “Of course… your mother and brother. I’m so sorry. I read about it online.” She winces like she’s mad at herself for reminding me that the press created a media circus reporting on their deaths, like it was a type of sick entertainment. Speculations were rife for some time afterward over whether it was an insurance coverup, or something equally underhand. It all died down after a few weeks when an investigation declared the yacht fire as an accident. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a terrible, tragic accident.

Without conscious thought, I lean over and gently uncover her hand from her bracelet.

“My sister wears a necklace that reminds her of our brother. The diamond is made from his ashes.”

Tate’s eyes shine with understanding. “It’s not the same as having them, but it can help to have something to hold onto in those times their loss hits you.”

“Comes out of nowhere, doesn’t it?”

She holds my eyes, her voice soft with understanding. “Yeah, sure does.”

Vincent continues his set and I observe Tate’s growing smile as she listens. I saw the way she touched the piano in my place. I was right to bring her here.

“Do you play?” I ask.

“I do. I’m not very good, though.” She turns her gaze from Vincent and meets mine. “Do you?”

“Sometimes,” I reply. “I’ve been told I’m excellent.”

I hold back my smile as she breaks into a surprised laugh.

“Is excellent spelled v-a-i-n, by any chance?”

I let the smallest fragment of my smile out so that my lips quirk. “I see you learned spelling at the same school as my sister.”

Tate bites down on her bottom lip, and her laugh softens. “She gives it back to you, huh? She sounds cool.”

“She is.”

“I don’t just play.” Tate screws her face up like she’s embarrassed before she takes another sip of her cocktail. “I like to write songs too.”

“You do?”

“Yep. One almost got me a place in a girlband once. Until they decided my ‘thunder thighs’ didn’t belong on an album cover.”

“Thunder thighs?”

She shrugs, reluctant to meet my eyes. “Their words, not mine. They wanted thin and pretty.”

“Thin,” I echo, my eyes dropping over the neckline of her dress to the swell of her breasts. I run my tongue over my lower lip as I drag my gaze upward.

“Exactly. So that was that.” She sighs. “I keep meaning to send a song I wrote to record labels. But Dad got laid off, and then the stuff with Brandon happened and I just put it on hold. But it’s my dream, so I’ll start again when the time’s right.”

“You want to give up your career?”

She laughs again like I’ve said something funny. Only this time I’m not joking. It takes years of studying to be a teacher, and Tate must be in her mid-twenties. She’s barely begun seeing how much of an impact she can have on kids’ lives.

“But you’re great at it,” I continue. I might not have seen her teach, but I’ve seen her with Molly and there’s no denying the way my little girl looks at her like she hung the moon.

“O-kay.” Tate looks at me like she’s puzzled. “Thanks, I guess.”

I pick up my whiskey and recline in my seat, studying her. “Who’s Brandon?”

The way her chest deflates, and her eyes dim confirms my suspicion.

“Ah, the loser ex,” I say, bringing my glass to my lips and taking a sip.

Tate’s eyes fix on my mouth as I lower the glass, letting it dangle between my fingers as I rest my arm on the side of the seat.

“What did he do?”

She purses her lips, considering my question. I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She doesn’t like me. And after my accusations, she probably doesn’t trust me, either. But the fact she didn’t insist on Cliff taking her home tonight once she realized this evening wasn’t being spent with Molly was a sign that a small part of her is intrigued by me. She might think accepting my invitation tonight was a way to get to know more about the man whom she’s employed by. But this evening is as much for me as it is for her. I need to know more about the woman I’m allowing around my daughter. Not the things a background check can tell me. The things she won’t put on a form.

I need to know what makes Tate Miller tick. What she loves, craves. What she’s scared of. I need to know everything that my daughter will be exposed to whilst in her company.

“He…” She takes a sip of her drink like she needs courage. “He was fucking another woman, and I walked in on them as he was finishing. Loudly, I might add. He was more enthusiastic than he ever was with me.”

I narrow my eyes and study her. “That bothers you more than the cheating?”

“No. I don’t care. I mean, why would I? That’s a given with cheats, right? That they make more effort for the new person.”

The fire in her eyes is muted by an undercurrent of uncertainty.

“I wasn’t referring to his efforts. I meant, you’re more bothered by the fact he was clearly enjoying having sex with this other woman more than he enjoyed having sex with you,” I state matter of factly.

“What?” She gapes at me like I’m the rudest man she’s ever laid eyes on.

“Tate,” I say, taking my time to place my glass on the table and lean my forearms over my spread thighs until I’m staring straight into her eyes, ready to level with her. “How many guys left their numbers for you at work this week?”

Her nose wrinkles. “That’s not import⁠—”

“How many?”

She shakes her head, looking confused. “I don’t know. Maybe twelve?”

“Twelve,” I repeat slowly, the number making me clench my jaw momentarily. “And do you know how many of those twelve were imagining how you looked underneath that pink uniform you wear? How many were wondering if your nipples would be more of a pink or a brown? How many were thinking about how they’d feel against the tip of their tongue as they tasted them?” I allow my eyes to drop to the heaving swell of her cleavage as her breaths grow ragged at my words.

“Do you know how many of them were fantasizing about how loud they’d fucking groan like they’d visited heaven and come back to earth again if you ever gave them the opportunity to fuck you?”

“W-what?” She laughs, stopping abruptly and scanning my serious face.

I nod slowly, driving my point home.

“All of them,” I say. “Every single fucking one.”