“Thank you.”
“I ordered you a wonderful Syrah,” Joe told her.
“I can’t wait. I’ve found all my favorite wines with you.”
Rafe stared at the table and turned his fork over and over and over.
“So,” Mia said, “how was the game?”
Rafe’s hand froze. But it was Tate who voiced what Rafe was thinking.
“What do you mean how was the game?” Tate’s voice was filled with attitude. “Didn’t you watch it?”
“No. But judging by your faces, I’m going to guess it was bad, so we can just move on to other subjects if you’d like.”
“Other subjects?” Rafe said, lifting his gaze to hers. She never wanted to talk about anything else after a game. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Mia?”
She gave him a cursory smile. “Sorry it’s a sore subject. I’m sure it’s just a blip. You’ll hammer them in the next game.”
Tate’s gaze darted to Rafe. “Not if Rafe doesn’t get his head out of his—”
“Don’t,” Rafe warned. “If you want this to be a nice dinner, just don’t.”
Mia hung the strap of her purse on the back of her chair and turned her gaze on Joe, totally ignoring Rafe and Tate. “How’d your merger go in Milwaukee? Did the trophy wife cause as much trouble as you thought she would?”
“Hold on,” Tate interrupted, leaning into the table and giving Mia a pointed stare. “I think a more important question would be, where have you been sleeping the past two nights?”
Rafe’s mind hit a brick wall. He glanced between Mia and Tate several times before the information that Mia had not gone back to Tate’s apartment that night she’d left the bar or the night they’d been out of town sank in.
“Wait,” Rafe said before he could stop himself. “What?”
Mia drilled them both with very deliberate stares. “I suggest you both heed Rafe’s earlier advice. If you want this to be a nice dinner, don’t.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Joe cut in. All three of them stopped talking but didn’t stop glaring as Joe’s mediating voice soothed the ruffled feathers around the table. “Hey, now, what’s going on here? This isn’t how my kids act. Especially not to each other.”
No one bothered to point out that only one of his children sat at the table. From the time Joe had discovered Tate existed, he’d treated Tate’s half sister and Tate’s best friend as his own kids. All because Tate loved them. Joe had provided for both Rafe and Mia financially and emotionally where their parents couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“I know the playoffs have you boys stressed,” Joe said. “I can only imagine the pressure you’re under. But don’t take it out on Mia. She’s got a lot of stress in her own life, and it’s no less important than yours.” He glanced at Mia and seemed to choose his words carefully. “When you have your own kids, you’ll understand that you never stop worrying about them, no matter how old they get. Is there anything you need to tell me about where you’ve been sleeping, young lady?”
Mia cast an apologetic look at Joe. “I’ve been making some things for the girls. You know, Eden, Faith, Sara, and Tina. And for the kids too. I’m using Tina’s machine at her house, and it was so nice to feel welcome and appreciated that it made me realize I didn’t feel like getting lectured by Saint Tate every time he got home. So I stayed at Tina’s one night and with Faith and Grant another. I got so good at couch hopping in New York, it was like second nature.”
“Couch hopping?” Rafe asked, confused.
“What’s this Saint Tate bullshit?” Tate asked.
“Tate.” Joe reprimanded his son for swearing.
“You do everything right.” Rafe knew exactly what the Saint Tate bullshit was. “That’s what it means. You always do everything you’re supposed to do. Follow all the rules and social mores. You have all the manners and morals. Sometimes your standards are a little hard for us mere mortals to live up to.”
“Mores? Since when do you even know what asocial mores are?” Tate sat back in his chair. “And, why am I getting hammered for doing the right thing?”
“Sounds to me,” Joe said, “like you’re getting hammered for being harsh on the people you love when they don’t do everything perfectly by your standards.”
Tate opened his mouth to argue just as a waiter came by and set drinks on the table. By the time he was gone, Tate’s ire had faded. “I’m sorry I’ve been rough on you,” he told Mia. “I worry, that’s all.”
Mia sighed and rolled her eyes with a little shake of her head. “It’s not an apology when you lie, Tate.”
“See, you’re wrong,” Tate told Rafe. “I obviously can’t even apologize right.”