“We can't do this.”
“We can do anything we want.”
“Jameson would kill me,” Sanders stressed, his eyes looking past her, at the wall. She dug her fingers into his shoulders.
“No, he wouldn't. He would probably congratulate you. Pat you on the back. Then you could swap stories,” Tate teased. Sanders shook his head.
“No. He would kill me. He loves me, but he loves you more,” he whispered.
Tate couldn't handle that, couldn't handle those words, couldn't believe those words. So she yanked him forward and kissed him.