Chapter 27
Tabitha knew the exact moment Miles started heading toward her, a determined tip to his chin and a caveman proprietary look in his eyes.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
It was rude, not giving her attention to the very nice, extremely good-looking lawyer sitting next to her.
But when Miles was around, she had no attention left to give.
He took it all.
Her attention. Her thoughts.
If she wasn’t careful, he’d take her willpower and pride, too.
He maneuvered through the crowd in jeans and a black and white striped T-shirt that clung to his chest and arms. His dark hair was perfectly mussed, and just the right amount of stubble covered his sharp jaw.
Lincoln, the aforementioned good-looking lawyer, touched her arm. “Everything okay?”
She blinked, her face heating. “Yes,” she said, managing not only a smile to go along with her little white lie, but also to tear her gaze off Miles and focus on Lincoln’s handsome face long enough to deliver it.
Until Miles joined them, stepping up to stand beside Lincoln, his gaze dropping to where Lincoln’s hand was still on her arm before lifting his eyes once more to her face.
“Tabitha,” he said, a cool greeting to go along with his clenched jaw and hooded gaze.
As if he’d come all the way across the room just so he could be a rude, dismissive asshole to her face.
Lucky her.
“Miles,” she said politely. “Hello. Are you enjoying your evening?”
“No.”
That was it. Short. Simple. To the point. And growled with his lips barely moving.
Then he once again lowered his gaze to the other man’s hand on her arm.
But when he lifted his eyes, it wasn’t to meet hers.
It was to meet Lincoln’s.
It was as clear of a remove your fucking hand before I remove it from your wrist look as you could get without actually having that hand cut off.
It was also as close as she could get to being marked without actually being peed on.
Lincoln, for his part, didn’t seem offended, intimidated, or provoked. He just raised his eyebrows slowly then, even slower, removed his hand from her arm. “Jennings.”“Black.”
And Miles went back to focusing on Tabitha, as if now that the other man wasn’t touching her, he no longer existed in his world.
“Was there something you wanted?” she asked him when he stayed silent.
“You.”
It was another growled, one-word answer. One that had her entire body going still. Alert.
On edge.
“I hadn’t realized you and the assistant chief of police knew each other,” Lincoln said.
“Miles and I—”
“We were together,” Miles interrupted, not taking his eyes off her, as if while filling Lincoln in on that little tidbit, he was also reminding her of something that was already embedded quite deeply in her memory, thank you very much. “For almost a year.”
She narrowed her yes to slits. Now he wanted to share their history with people after keeping it hidden for all these years? When she was trying so desperately to move past it?
“Were together,” Lincoln said mildly, “isn’t the same as are together. No matter how long it lasted.” He paused, eyebrows raised in a silent question as he looked at Tabitha. “Or how recently it ended.”
“Fucking lawyers,” Miles muttered.
“It wasn’t recent,” Tabitha said. “Our ending. Or was that your small-town way of asking if Miles and I are still sleeping together?”
Lincoln’s mouth twitched. “It’s my way of figuring out if Jennings here is going to try and kick my ass.”
“I’m not,” Miles told him, all mild and low, as if the thought never crossed his mind. But then he smirked and damn it all, it was way sexier than it had any right being. “But if I was, there’d be no trying about it.”
Her eyes went wide. “You did not just say that,” she said to Miles as Lincoln got to his feet.
They were evenly matched, with Lincoln having two inches on Miles, but Miles being broader. Standing toe to toe, they did that silent staring thing men at odds did with each other, matching each other smirk for smirk, as if their favorite Saturday night activity was brawling at The Cockeyed Chameleon.
Men. Even the ones who were supposed to be intelligent, evolved, upstanding, and respectable members of society were reduced to their Neanderthal ways when their fragile egos were threatened.
But she didn’t want anyone fighting over her.
She wanted someone to fight for her.
Until then, she’d just have to fight for herself.
She grabbed her purse, then slid off her stool. “You two are idiots. And seeing as how this pissing contest you have going on has more to do with you, your egos, and your insecurities than me, I’m just going to leave you to it. Try not to drown.”
Her indignation fueled her as she walked away, helping her make her way through the crowd.
Miles had been right the other day. She was getting better at being angry.
She’d just reached the other end of the bar when someone took hold of her upper arm, and she knew, immediately, and without having to so much as glance over her shoulder, who was touching her.
After all these years, Miles’s touch was still somehow ingrained in her skin.
And it still had the power to stop her in her tracks.
“We need to talk,” he grumbled close to her ear, that perfect amount of stubble scraping pleasantly against the sensitive skin just below her hairline.
“No. We don’t.”
She kept her gaze resolutely ahead. It pinched her pride, but she couldn’t look at him. The man had too many weapons at his disposal as it was, that stubble and the sandalwood scent of his cologne and the heat of his body at her back. No way was she going to risk meeting his eyes when he stood this close. When he smelled this good.
When her heart was racing this hard. Her skin tingling where his fingers were wrapped around her.
When she still wanted him so much.
He stepped closer, the hard planes of his chest pressing against her shoulder blades as he dipped his head even lower, his lips moving against the outer edge of her ear, his breath tickling her skin.
“Tabitha.” He paused, his hesitation like a living, breathing pulse between them. And then, even closer, even quieter, “Please.”
She trembled as a wave of longing flowed through her.
Her name had been a demand, low and impatient.
But the please had been a plea, soft and gruff.
She gave herself a moment to pretend that things between them—the lingering feelings and ceaseless want—weren’t so complicated. That they could get past the mistakes they’d both made.
That they really could move forward.
But while she’d always been good at lying to others, it was becoming harder to convincingly do it to herself.
Straightening, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Not. Interested.”
But whereas the Miles she’d known a decade ago would have given in and let go of her immediately, this Miles only narrowed his eyes further. And while he did loosen his grip, his fingers still caged her arm.
Then he slowly dragged his hand down, down, down—the rough pad of his thumb brushing against the soft skin of her inner elbow; the circle of his fingers closing slightly to accommodate the narrowing of her forearm; his fingertips brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat quicky and unsteady. Where it leapt under his touch.
Where it gave too much away.
It was just a touch. Just his fingers on her arm, but it was as if a current ran from his fingers, igniting her blood. Lighting her up from the inside. She made a sound, unable to stop it or to suppress her light shiver. The pebbling of goosebumps along her skin.
His gaze turned downright triumphant. His fingertips twitched as they skimmed across her palm. Trailed down her fingers.
He linked his fingers firmly with hers, then tugged her away from the bar, his long, determined strides through the crowd forcing her to take quick, short steps to keep up with him.
They were garnering more than their fair share of attention. Double-takes and outright stares. She may have only been in Mount Laurel a few weeks, but she’d already learned how hungry the citizens in this town were for juicy gossip.
And Mount Laurel’s assistant police chief dragging a woman through The Cockeyed Chameleon was going to feed them for days. Maybe even weeks.
They stepped into the narrow, short hallway behind the pool table. The Ladies’ Room door opened and a thirty-something white woman in cropped jeans and a pink floral tank top stepped out, her eyes widening as she took in Miles’s expression.
Whatever she saw on his face was enough to have her pressing her back against the wall as she scooted toward the bar, her scandalized gaze locked on him, one hand at the base of her throat.
Seemed a bit dramatic, the whole clutching at imaginary pearls thing, but then again, Tabitha wasn’t one to shock easily.
Miles stormed past the Ladies’ Room, turned left, taking them down a shorter, darker hall that led to an emergency exit, then went up to a door clearly marked Employees Only and opened it. It must have been on a motion sensor because an overhead light came on as Miles marched into the room, pulling Tabitha along with him.
Seemed she could be shocked, after all.
Miles had dragged her into a supply closet.
A small, well-organized supply closet with neatly lined shelves of liquor bottles, cases of beer, and stacked boxes of straws, cups and napkins, sure, but a supply closet, nonetheless.
Her shock only grew when he tugged her into the middle of the closet, let go of her hand, turned on his heel, stormed back to the door.
And locked it.
She gaped at him, eyes wide, mouth open, that earlier anger increasing in intensity, turning into something hotter. Mixing with something bright and sharp and dangerous.
Something explosive. Untamed and wild.
It should have been simple, naming these feelings burning through her. The ones that left her trembling. Her stomach turning with a pleasant mix of warmth and anticipation. Her heart picking up speed.
Safe for her to acknowledge what she was feeling. What she wanted.
But her feelings for Miles had never been simple.
And there sure as hell wasn’t anything safe about how she was feeling right now.
“Have you lost your mind?” she demanded.
“We need to talk,” he repeated.
“I said I wasn’t interested in talking to you. Yet that didn’t stop you from hauling me through the bar like I was a criminal under arrest after you interrupted my conversation with a very nice man.”
His scowl darkened. That muscle at the back of his jaw ticked. “Black’s not a nice man, he’s a lawyer. And he just wants to fuck you.”
Her breath caught. It was another shock. This one hitting her square in her chest.
Rubbing the ache, she swallowed the painful lump that had lodged in her throat.
It shouldn’t hurt. Not after everything she’d survived. Not after Miles had made it more than clear what he thought of her.
It shouldn’t hurt.
But it did.
And she’d be damned if she’d let him know that.
She dropped her hand. Curled her lips up into a well-practiced smile.
“Well, of course that’s all he wants from me,” she said, her words a soft purr. “What other reason could a man possibly have for talking to me? I’m nothing special after all. I’m not smart enough or funny enough or interesting enough to pique a man’s interest in me as an actual person. For him to want to know my thoughts or opinions. Why, I’m not even good enough for a man—a man I lived with, a man who told me again and again that he loved me, a man who supposedly wanted to marry me—to introduce me to his family or even tell them I exist.”
Miles straightened. “That’s not how it—”
“I’m not good enough for someone like Lincoln Black, or any other kind, decent, intelligent man.” Holding Miles’s gaze, she tipped her head to the side. “And I was never even close to being good enough for you.”
“That was not what I said. Don’t put words in my fucking mouth.”
“No, you didn’t say that. You said you remember everything about me. Including how good of a fuck I am.”
He flinched. Dropped his gaze, but the moment she took a step toward him, he lifted his eyes. She took another step and he eased back, his shoulder blades hitting the locked door with a dull thud, his dark eyes wary.
“And then,” she continued, “you took me home so you could prove I was nothing more to you than a girl you used to fuck. That any feelings you used to have for me were long gone. So you could prove you were the one holding all the power. The one with all the control.”
His eyes narrowed. His mouth thinned.
And remained firmly shut.
She took one last step, closing all but the last few inches between them. So close, his deep, sharp inhale had his chest brushing against her breasts. His long, slow exhale ruffling the hair at her temple.
“You thought you could fuck me out of your system, but it didn’t work. Now here you are, pretending you’re above Lincoln and every other man who wants me. Poor Miles. Always trying so hard to be good and righteous and perfect. You must hate it, that you were so wrong.”
Pushing him, testing herself, she settled her palms on his chest. Felt the tremble that went through him at her touch. The way his heart leapt, as if trying to jump out of his chest.
And into her hands.
But no matter what he said about their past and his feelings for her, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, he’d never trusted her with his heart.
She wondered if he ever would.
“It must kill you,” she whispered, “to still want me so much.”
He stayed still and silent and watchful, as if nothing she said affected him. As if her words, her touch meant nothing to him.
What liars they both were.
But just because she was a liar didn’t mean she couldn’t be brave.
It was her turn to dismantle him.
Keeping her hands on his chest, she stepped back far enough that her arms straightened. Then, she slowly, slowly, trailed her hands down. Noted the contrast in the steadiness of his gaze against the unevenness of his breathing. The softness of his shirt covering the hard planes of his abdomen. His solid, rooted stance and the way his stomach muscles jumped and twitched under her fingers.
“Look how hard you fight it,” she said softly. “Look how desperate you are not to want me.” She barely, barely brushed the very tips of her fingers down the zipper of his jeans over the visible bulge of his hard cock. His hips pressed forward. His breathing came faster. With a small, satisfied hum, she cupped him through his jeans. “But look how badly you do.”
Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he tugged her hand away. “Tabitha… what are you doing?”
“I’m taking control. And proving I hold my own power.”
Holding his gaze, letting him keep hold of her wrist, she slowly, gracefully, lowered herself to her knees.