Page 62 of Tell Me No Lies

My eyes widen, because I can only imagine their faces as they opened the top drawer of my nightstand. “Everything?”

Tate looks a little sheepish. “I had them bring most of your furniture over as it was. I didn't want them digging through your panties.”

“Panties are the least of my concerns.” I huff out a little laugh. “They carried a full chest of drawers down Christian’s stairs, across the yard, and back up your stairs?”

Tate flashes me another grin as he scales the cement steps leading to the back door. “It's good for them. They're both getting soft. They needed the exercise.” He shuffles my weight around, balancing me with one knee while unlocking the door and pushing it open, angling us through. “And I didn't make them carry it upstairs. I told them they could leave it in the entryway. Our room isn't ready anyway.”

I lift my brows, unsure what he means when he says our room isn’t ready since none of the house is what most people would call ready. My eyes catch on something over his shoulder, and I lean to look around his head, shocked at what I see. “Are you shitting me?”

Tate carefully lowers my feet to the floor. “I made a few other calls while we were gone too.”

I walk toward the kitchen—the actual, functioning kitchen—not really believing what I'm seeing. “We've only been gone a week.”

When we left, Tate had all the drywall in here hung and finished, but that was it. The room still isn't done, but now the walls are painted in the deep, burgundy red I chose.

Cabinets in the same color line the wall the kitchen shares with the dining room, then turn to follow the short path of the hall leading in from the entryway. A gigantic island sits in the center of the space, offering a huge work area, complete with a deep, wide sink. The room is set up almost exactly like Christian’s, but the painted cabinets and simple butcher block counters give it an entirely different feel.

Tate follows me as I move around the space, running my hand over the smooth, woodgrain surface of the island. “I wasn't sure about hardware, so I just had them install the cabinets and paint everything the color you picked out. I did guess on the counters because I wanted this room to be functional when we came back, but if you don’t like them—”

I turn to face him. “They're perfect.” Even though the room is huge, it still has a warm, cozy feel thanks to the darker paint colors and the richness of the countertops. LED can lights set into the ceiling keep it from feeling dreary and serve as great task lighting while giving the room a comforting glow. My eyes lift to a set of wires dangling above the island.

“I didn't know what to put there either. I think islands usually have some sort of a light that dangles over top of them, but I haven’t got a fucking clue what it should be.” Tate steps close, pulling my body against his. “There are a lot of decisions to be made, and I’m glad you’ll be here to make them.”

“Me too.” It’s kind of crazy to me how fast I’m ready to move now that I’ve moved past everything that used to trip me up.

But right now, I’m mostly ready to move up the stairs and go the fuck to bed. I turn toward the entryway. “You said our room wasn’t ready. Does that mean it’s currently under construction?”

“It does. I decided the kitchen and bedroom were the two most important rooms to get finished.” His hands slide up and down my spine. “I want you to be comfortable here. I know it’s not perfect, but—”

I lean up to press my lips to his, sealing off the rest of his words. “It’s better than perfect.” I look around us. At the place that will be the kind of home I’ve always wanted. A place where I can be comfortable without having to worry I might ding a cabinet or spill a drink. Tate living the way he did for so long shows me he’ll never lose his shit over something like that.

I’ll also never have to worry about losing myself to him. He won’t let that happen. He likes me too much. Which is why I know I need to tell him the rest of why I am the way I am.

Was the way I was.

Rubbing my lips together, I take a deep breath, preparing to dig into something I try my best to keep buried. “Remember how I told you I grew up in a house like Christian’s?”

He slowly nods. “I remember.”

I swallow hard. “It was my mother’s husband’s house.” I don’t call him my stepdad. Never did. Never will. I’ve called him lots of other things though. Things I’m sure will pale in comparison to what Tate calls him before this conversation is through. “She married him when I was around ten and we moved from Nashville to Memphis to live with him.”

My words stall out for a second. I fucking hate telling this story. I hate remembering how excited I was to move into a big fancy house and all the fucking rainbows and butterflies I had in my eyes at the beginning.

But life isn’t always rainbows and butterflies. Sometimes it’s storm clouds and cockroaches.

I know which one my mother’s husband is.

Tate holds me a little tighter. “We don’t need to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

I manage a smile, hoping it might ease the worry written on his face. “We do though. It’s an important part of my life and will explain a lot.” I hesitate, knowing he’s not gonna like this next part. “Including why I didn’t freak out when Rick had me trapped in the laundry room.”

Tate’s blue eyes darken and I can feel his body tense. “I mean it, Piper. We don't have to talk about it.” His voice carries an edge of the same barely controlled anger I witnessed when he put his fist through Rick’s face. I know he wanted to do more than he did. There's not a doubt in my mind that if time and circumstances had allowed, no one would have ever seen or heard from Rick again.

And that amount of anger was nothing compared to what flashed through his eyes when he asked why I wasn't more upset. Almost as if he suspected the answer.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t asked me again. Maybe deep down, he already knows what I’m about to say. If so, hopefully it’s given him time to prepare.

“Her husband never wanted kids, so having me in his pristine life was a fucking buzz kill for him. Any time I made noise, any time I made a mess, he was on my ass. Yelling until I was positive he’d either pop a blood vessel or stroke out.” That was probably wishful thinking on my part. “And my mom let him. Actually, she kind of started to act the same way. Like I was an inconvenience. Like having me around interfered with her new life.” That had been the hardest part to deal with. The change in her. “She’d been such a good mom until then, and when she decided he was all that mattered to her, I was devastated. It probably led to me acting out more than I should have.” I huff out a breath that carries the frustration I still feel. “But I was a kid and I didn’t understand right away that I’d been replaced.”

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