The angry hurt on Mia’s face indicated an explosion was imminent. And even though Rafe wanted the answers to a hell of a lot of uncomfortable questions too, he sat forward and put force behind his next words. “Tate, knock it off.”
But Mia wasn’t helping the situation. She crossed her arms and cocked her head with attitude. “Really?” she asked Tate. “And how did you know this would happen? Do you have a crystal ball?”
“Because it always ha
ppens. It happens with every damn boyfriend. They all break up with you for the same reason—”
“Tate—” she warned.
“You hold back. You’re emotionally unavailable. When it comes down to it, you can’t commit. And you just keep screwing up your life—”
“Tate.” Joe’s bark shut down everyone within a ten-foot radius. All eyes turned to their table. “Enough.”
When others refocused on their own dinners, Mia reached over and covered Joe’s hand with hers, then spoke to Tate in a quiet, controlled voice. “You are not a psychiatrist. And you do not know what’s best for me. This job is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It came from a contact I made in design school. Just because the timing came on the heels of a breakup with Sam doesn’t mean that’s why I took it. And I can guarantee you I’m not screwing up my life with this move.”
Tate heaved a sigh. “How do you know?”
“Because I’m working on the set of Wicked Dawn, you pompous asshole.”
Rafe’s mouth dropped open. He knew Mia was talented. Knew she had ambition and drive and work ethic. But he’d obviously cut off communication with her at a critical time in her life. And she’d soared. “‘The’ Wicked Dawn? The one on HBO?”
“Yes, Tate, that one. The one heading into its seventh season and rivaling Game of Thrones for ratings. That Wicked Dawn. They’ve hired a new costume designer for the next season, and I’m working directly with that designer,” Mia said. “It’s the kind of job I would only find on Broadway in New York, and considering other designers read the obituaries to leap on a job opening like that, I didn’t think homicide was the best option. So while I may not be able to hold on to a guy, at least I won’t be screwing up my career. And before you judge my relationship failures, Tate, take a look in the mirror.”
That last comment knocked the wind from Rafe’s chest. Mia never brought up Tate’s ex-wife. She’d always been incredibly sensitive over how that loss had nearly crippled her brother. But she wasn’t pulling any punches, and Tate’s gaze warred with Mia’s.
“I know what happened with Lisa was hard on you,” Mia said, her anger turning to pain in her eyes and bringing tears that welled but never fell. “And I know there has to be a transition period. But honest to God, Tate, I’m tired of waiting for you to turn back into the guy you were before that bitch took over your life.”
A waiter passed, and Mia flagged him down. “Cancel my order please. I have to go.”
Rafe rubbed a hand down his face, searching for a way to pull this from the fire, but came up with nothing. He could barely tackle his own emotions over this revelation. He sure as shit couldn’t take on Mia’s hurt over losing Tate or Tate’s inability to move on after Lisa.
She gave Joe a sad smile and patted his hand. “Can we have dinner tomorrow night? Before you catch your plane?”
Joe looked miserable. He lifted a hand to her face and wiped at her cheek. The gesture made Rafe realize her tears had spilled over and it wrenched his gut. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Mia cry.
“Of course, honey.” Joe kissed her forehead. “I’m so proud of you. And your brothers are too. It’s just…this Cup.”
Mia nodded and stood.
“Mia.” Tate planted his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with both hands. “Don’t go. I’m sorry, I’m…” He looked up at her. “I’m an ass. I’m stressed, and I’m worried about you and—”
“And we’ll talk about it later,” she said with finality. The same finality she’d used when she’d told them she was moving across the goddamned country. “After we’ve both had time to cool off.”
She looked at Rafe, and the glimmer of tears still in her eyes made everything inside him twerk. “And you’re wrong too. It is for the money. A lot more money.” She shot one last look at Tate. “Neither one of you knows me the way you think you do. I’m beginning to think you never did.”
9
Mia had finished half a bottle of wine by the time she’d exhausted her Internet apartment search in Los Angeles. She was going to move into her friend’s two bedroom until she got settled in the job, but Mia wanted to stand on her own. She’d already let Tate pay for her education, which had been difficult for her independent spirit. Living on her own, especially in light of how Tate viewed her, was more important than ever.
His hurtful words—or more to the point, their accuracy—stabbed at her heart again, and tears pushed into her eyes, blurring the screen. She pulled another Kleenex from the box on the coffee table and pressed it against her face. As soon as she’d gotten home, she’d ditched the high heels, washed her smeared makeup off her face, coiled her hair into a bun on top of her head, and curled into a corner of the sofa with her laptop.
She closed her browser, picked up her phone, and scrolled through Instagram, trying to keep her mind busy until she was too tired to keep her eyes open or Tate got home and they started fighting again—whichever came first.
A knock at the door made her jump, then she rolled her eyes. “He forgot his key?” she muttered, setting down her phone to start toward the door with her wine, calling, “Would serve you right if I left you in the hall.”
She opened the door, but instead of Tate, she found Rafe, and her stomach squeezed. He’d loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. His expression was tight and dark. Turbulence brewed in his eyes. His intensity pounded awareness through her body, but her heart balked. Mia had been hurt enough. Great sex and good looks wouldn’t fill the hole there.
She glanced behind him into the hall, suddenly self-conscious about her own miserable state of red swollen eyes and blotchy face. “Where’s Tate?”