Page 10 of Tell Me No Lies

He continues to study me. "It can't happen again."

I scoff, because again he’s saying what I was planning to say and again he sounds way more sure than I think I would have. It's starting to piss me off. "You say that like you think I would have any interest in fucking you again." I cross my arms over my chest, hoping he can't see the lie. "But I don't."

My face is suddenly hot. Everything is fucking hot. I'm sweating, and all I want to do is fan myself. Why is the air so smothering in this place? Does he not have air conditioning either?

Almost like it wants to mock me, his central air system kicks on, the mechanical whir of the machine outside the window behind us making my teeth grind together.

Tate’s lips barely twitch at the corners as one slashing brow angles. "Is that so?"

I laugh, trying to sound amused but only succeed in appearing a little unhinged—and maybe like I'm overcompensating. "Of course it’s true." I press my lips together, forcing myself to shut up.

Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't ask.

"Would you want to fuck me again?" Dammit. I've never been good at keeping my thoughts or opinions to myself. Not even when I want to.

But instead of returning my claims of indifference, Tate’s gaze darkens as it slowly slides down my body. "That's irrelevant because it won't be happening again."

That's not a no, and it has me sweating again.

"We have to work together, Piper. I’m your boss, and I shouldn't have taken advantage of that."

He’s being reasonable—saying the things most women in my position would want to hear. Not me. His completely normal explanation has me fuming because of what it insinuates.

"You didn't fucking take advantage of me, dick." I’m not the kind of woman who can be taken advantage of. No one uses me. No one controls me. No one tells me what to think or what to say or what to do. They never have and they never well.

And that includes him.

If Tate’s bothered by the way I lash out, he doesn't show it. "Regardless, it shouldn't have happened."

I continue glaring at him, stewing over him thinking he could take advantage of me. I know I should let it go, but I can't. "I took advantage of you. You're my boss. I shouldn't have done that." I try not to sound condescending.

No, actually, I don't. I fully intended to sound condescending. To flip his words back at him. To show Tate how fucking ridiculous it sounds. Because the thought of me taking advantage of him should sound just as ridiculous as the thought of him taking advantage of me.

But it doesn't. That's not how the world sees things. And while I'm glad more people are waking up to how many women are taken advantage of, it grates that anyone would assume the same of me.

"Apology accepted."

"I—" My mouth hangs open, ready to continue arguing, but his unexpected response stops me short. Like everything else he does, it irks me. "I didn't say I was sorry. I just said I shouldn't have done it." I know I'm splitting hairs here, but I don't care.

Tate’s jaw slowly works from side to side, and the hand that had once been so casually draped across the back of the sofa clenches to a tight fist before relaxing. "Glad we’re on the same page then."

I stare at him, wanting so much for it to be a glare, but I can't kid myself. I’m back to noticing how fucking hot he is and remembering the way he fucked me.

This man infuriates me. Pisses me off in ways no one else ever has. Apparently I'm into that kind of thing, because the urge to launch myself across the couch at him is strong. But I have to be stronger. I don’t like the way I feel about Tate. Don’t like the hold he has on me. I’ve seen what a dynamic like this can do to a woman. Witnessed the power imbalance it creates.

And vowed that would never happen to me.

I thought channeling all the feelings I have toward him into anger would save me. Keep my emotions well within the lines I’ve laid out.

No such fucking luck.

So I need to leave. I had the conversation I came to have, and that should be the end of it. But I'm struggling to make myself get up. Struggling to force myself out of this moment. I've never been alone with Tate—not like this—and the dumbass part of me wants to enjoy it a little longer.

But the dumbass part of me is a dumbass, so to keep it in check, I decide to be a smartass. "Just out of curiosity, are you ever planning to finish your house, or do you prefer this specific aesthetic?"

Tate’s lips barely lift at one corner, like he finds my bad attitude amusing. "Not a fan?"

I lift one shoulder and let it drop. "It doesn't really matter what I think. I just would’ve expected you to want to come home to someplace comfortable after being in a loud, dirty shop all day."

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