Page 9 of Tell Me No Lies

That means it might be someone I don’t know standing on my porch, reminding me I need to install the security system that’s been sitting in the middle of my future dining room for two years.

I silently pad back down the stairs, grateful I didn't turn on any lights so I can use the darkness to my advantage. When I reach the solid plane of the door, I pause, listening for any hint of who’s on the other side. Cursing myself for not replacing the bulb on my porch so I could see more clearly, I set down my beer. After rolling my shoulders and testing my fists, I fling the door open, planning to use the element of surprise against whoever's staring back at me.

But the eyes on mine aren't wide and filled with shock. They’re narrowed just like they always are when they're directed my way.

Piper looks me up and down, her gaze lingering on the beer set at my feet before settling on my face. "We need to talk."

Before I have a chance to respond, she’s shouldering past me, pushing her way into my house.

4

SORRY NOT SORRY

PIPER

I STOP SHORT a few steps into Tate’s house. It is…

Not what I expected.

I've been living at Christian’s for almost a month now, and while the outside of his place leaves a lot to be desired, the inside is insane. Everything is custom and high-end, from the faucets to the tile. His business does a lot of demo for some of the richest people in Memphis, and, as a result, he can get his hands on a ton of really nice stuff basically for free. And from the looks of it, the best of it ended up in his own home. I’m a big fan of secondhand shit, but he’s taken it to a whole different level. It’s kind of impressive, even if his house isn’t something I’d want for myself.

I sort of expected Tate’s place to be similar. The buildings are almost identical from the outside, so I assumed they would be nearly identical inside.

They are not.

I look up from the subfloor under my stupid sneaker and ugly-ass boot, letting my eyes roam the large entry hall. It's a grand space. Or, it would be. If it wasn't gutted to the studs and lit by nothing but the most basic of light fixtures stuck to the vaulted ceiling. The rooms on either side of the hall must not be gutted, because I can see the backside of the drywall lining them. However, the little bit of flooring I can see through the doorways also appears to be chipboard, making me guess they’re probably not much more finished than where I am now. The stairs leading to the second floor are also unfinished, the bare wood treads meeting chip board risers. They don't even have a railing, making me swallow hard at the thought of going up them in my current, still hobbled state.

Not that I will be finding out what’s on the second floor. That would be a bad decision, and I’ve already made one bad decision today.

Which is why I came here to begin with. To try to fix the damage done by that bad decision as quickly as possible so I can breathe again.

I spin to face Tate, the movement not as smooth as it would be if I'd actually been able to wear normal shoes on both feet tonight the way I thought I would. "Is there somewhere we can talk?" I can technically stand here, but my left foot aches a little. If I weren't such a pain in the ass, I might admit that maybe it was a good idea to leave me in a brace. But I am a pain in the ass, so I'm going to continue being pissed off about it.

Tate locks the front door and gives me a single nod, eyes moving over where I stand before he finally walks past, leading me deeper into the main floor of the house. It is set up just like Christian’s, with the front two rooms leading to a dining room, followed by a kitchen on the right and a large family room style area on the left. But again, that's where the similarities end.

Nothing in Tate’s house is finished. Not the floors. Not the walls. Not the cabinets or lighting. It's bizarre. I've only known him for a little while, but for the past two weeks of that time, I've seen him daily, and the man likes order. He follows a schedule to the minute. Knows where everything in the shop is, right down to the post-its and paper clips. So seeing that his house isn't even remotely completed is a shock.

I look a little closer as he leads me into the back portion, turning just as we reach the barely functional kitchen to go toward a gigantic sofa on the family room side. I carefully sit down at one end, leaving as much potential space between us as I can, hoping he'll grant me the same favor. I let out a relieved breath when Tate takes the complete opposite end of the couch, leaning back and stretching his arm across the top edge.

His blue eyes study me, gaze unwavering. The intensity of his stare makes me fidget, sending my eyes everywhere but at him. And as they roam around, I start to notice a few things. Things that make me notice that, while the house might not be finished, it still does scream Tate.

Even though the place is clearly a construction zone, it's immaculate. I can’t see so much as a speck of dust on the unfinished floors. I bet I could walk on them barefoot and my feet would still be clean. There are sheets on the windows instead of curtains, but they’re not just thrown up there. They’ve been carefully stretched so the fabric hangs smoothly over the panes.

The kitchen—and I use that term loosely—is sparse but orderly, with not so much as a coffee cup out of place on the small stretch of framed-up wood serving as a counter. I bet if I opened his fridge it would look the same.

"What did you want to talk about, Piper?"

The low rumble of Tate’s voice drags my attention back his way, and I swallow hard because holy hell is the man attractive. I would never admit it to him—to anyone—but Tate is probably the most handsome guy I've ever laid eyes on. Definitely the hottest one I've ever had sex with.

The reminder that his body filled mine not long ago has my thighs clenching together and my hands fisting in my lap.

Don't think about how good he is at sex. Don't think about how good he is at sex.

Shit. All I can think about is how good he is at sex.

"Fine. I'll start." He shifts around on the couch, sitting up a little straighter, but his gaze never leaves me. "What happened today shouldn't have happened."

My head snaps in his direction because that's exactly what I came here to say. I'm not sure I could've said it with the same conviction he did, which is a little offensive. The possibility that he regrets what we did has me lifting my chin, trying to look like I don't give a shit about it either. "Agreed."

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