4. Sorry Not Sorry
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.”
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.”
Tate scoffs, head bobbing back in offense. ”My shop’s not fucking dirty.”
I roll my eyes at his offense. ”You know what I mean. Even though the shop is clean, what we do there is messy.”
A betraying bit of my dumbass brain jumps forward, thrilled to remind me of just how messy things got today at the shop. I don”t want to react to it, but my body is just as big of a dumbass as that part of my brain, and heat races across my skin, creeping over my face and down my neck. I swear to God, if I could punch the dumbass part of my brain, I would. She”d deserve it.
Any hope I may have had that Tate would miss my reaction disappears as a smirk curves his lips. Like he knows exactly what I”m thinking.
Maybe he”s thinking it too.
Instead of calling me out on my inappropriate thoughts, Tate leans back in his seat, looking like the smug overlord of orgasms sitting on his throne. ”It”s comfortable enough. I”ve got a television. A couch. A bed. What more do I need?”
Now it”s my turn to scoff. ”How about carpet?” I fling one hand in the direction of his quote, unquote kitchen. ”A counter that”s not made of plywood?” I lift my eyes. ”Ceilings?” My gaze drops back to meet his. ”Do you want me to keep going?”
”I don”t need all that to be comfortable, Piper.” Something dark skitters over his expression. ”This is the nicest place I”ve ever lived. Plywood counters and all.”
My chest goes tight as I realize that flash of emotion was vulnerability. There and gone in a second before he offered me a tiny bit of insight into his past.
I haven”t been a part of this family long, but I”ve been around long enough to know none of the men Tate knows have pasts filled with sunshine and butterflies. I didn”t expect Tate to be the exception. But knowing this is the best home he”s ever had hits me hard. Makes me forget everything I”m supposed to be doing to ensure my life doesn”t go down the wrong path.
”That doesn”t mean you don”t deserve to want more.”
I may or may not have imagined Tate going home after work a few times, and it was never to a place like this. But now this is what I’ll think of at five o”clock every workday. I”ll imagine Tate walking through his back door, worn out and tired. And instead of being in a warm and comforting home, he”ll be somewhere that reminds him of all he”s never had.
”You say that, but you don”t know the things I”ve done.” He sounds almost resigned. ”I do, and I”m pretty sure this is way more than I deserve.”
I know a little of what he’s talking about. I’ve heard stories from some of the other women in the neighborhood. Talk about the shady past Tate shares with the men he calls his brothers. Was some of it shocking? For sure. Do I think Tate should punish himself forever for the things he’s done? Not when I know of men who’ve done worse and sleep like fucking babies at night.
“That’s stupid.” Normally I work hard to be a brat to him, but this time it comes easily. “You’ve done a lot of fucked-up shit, I’m not gonna argue with you.” My eyes drift to the sheets hanging over the windows behind us, angling in the direction of where Lydia and Myra are safe and sound in Christian’s house. “But you’ve done a lot of really fucking great shit too. More than enough to cancel out the bad.”
Tate’s nostrils flare, like what I’m saying is pissing him off instead of making him feel better. “I’ve killed people, Piper. More than a few.”
“Yeah, well,” I can’t help but laugh at what I’m about to say, “some people need killing.”
I know of one in particular. And I sure as shit wouldn’t beat myself up over taking him out.
Tate’s expression darkens and his voice is low when he asks, “Who made you think that?”
I swallow hard because I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
And by that, I mean I fucking love the way he’s looking at me—like he’s ready to hunt down whoever wronged me and put them in the ground with his bare hands. No one’s ever wanted to fight my battles for me. Hell, most people don’t even want to fight their own damn battles.
I’ve never had someone to fall back on. Someone supporting me. Looking out for me.
Protecting me.
And I can’t let myself think that maybe Tate might be able to do it.
“It’s late.” I check my watch. “Way past your bedtime.” I shove my way up from the couch, wincing a little as I put weight on my achy ankle. “I need to go.” I don’t look his way as I hobble as fast as I can to the front door, flinging it open and rushing out onto the porch like the place is on fire.
I’m all the way down the steps when Tate’s voice calls out behind me, deep and smooth. “I’ll figure it out, Piper.”
I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder and find him leaned against the open door, arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the dangerous man I know him to be.
His eyes slide down my body, heating me all the way to the chipped polish on my toes. “I’m sure I can come up with a way to make you tell me who.”
He’s not wrong, but I can’t let him know that, so I roll my eyes and flip him the bird. It’s not my best comeback, but it’s all I can manage since I’m now thinking of all the ways Tate might try to convince me to spill my secrets.