Page 17 of Tell Me No Lies

I try to school my features. Try to hide the fear that was just biting at my insides. I must do okay because his unwavering attention moves away from me and to the man coming our way carrying a bag of food that’s way too big for only two people.

Tate collects the bag, thanks the delivery guy, and is back at my side, dropping the food into my lap before wheeling me out from under my draining car. The glorious scent of tomato sauce and garlic drifts up and I can’t resist peeling apart the sealed opening to peek inside.

“I got us lasagna.” Tate lifts my propped-up leg and slides under it, dropping into the seat across from me before settling my ankle across one of his rock-hard thighs. The position is oddly intimate and has me squirming a little in my seat.

“Here.” He slides the bag from my lap to his, leaning back as he unpacks the food like it’s the most normal thing in the world for us to be sitting like this, eating dinner together. “This is one of my favorite places to eat in town.” He pulls out a foil tray and passes it to me. “They have the best Italian food I’ve ever had.”

I take a plastic packed set of silverware from his outstretched hand. “Lasagna is my favorite.” Like everything else about this moment, the admission makes me feel exposed in a way I don’t normally allow.

Shouldn’t allow now.

“I know.” Tate fishes out his own dinner and sets the bag on the floor beside his chair. “I’ve seen you tear it up at family dinners.”

I scoff. “I do not.”

“Do too.” Tate digs out a forkful of noodle and sauce. “I was scared to get too close. Thought I might lose a hand.”

I try not to laugh. I really do.

But the shit-eating grin he gives me before he takes a bite of his dinner makes it impossible to keep a straight face. To cover the slip, I cram in a huge bite, letting out a little moan when the cheesy, garlicky goodness hits my tongue.

Tate settles back in his seat, looking pleased as punch with himself. “Good, right?”

“You know damn well it’s good.” I shovel in more because holy hell this might be the best lasagna I’ve ever had.

“I’m glad you like it.” Tate isn’t doing much eating. He’s mostly watching me.

And it makes me all squirmy again so I try to redirect his attention. Dipping my chin toward the bag at his feet, I ask, “What else is in there?”

He leans over to peek inside, like he wasn’t the one who ordered it. “I got a couple more dinners for my fridge. My kitchen isn’t really set up for cooking.”

The food in my stomach turns to lead as I swallow down the bite in my mouth. It’s not super easy since my throat feels strangely tight. “You know you could change that.” Imagining Tate sitting all by himself in that shell of a house keeps my mouth moving, offering up pure foolishness. “I could help if you want. I’m not super handy, but I know how to swing a hammer.” Maybe not so much in a home improvement way, but still.

Tate’s eyes lock onto mine, holding for a second before dropping to my mouth. When he finally meets my gaze again, the hunger I see there makes it hard to breathe. Especially since I know it’s got nothing to do with his stomach.

He leans forward, reaching out to gently wipe at the corner of my mouth with his paper napkin. His skin doesn’t even touch mine, but the contact still overwhelms me. Because he’s not getting handsy. Not trying to cop a feel or sneak a grab.

He’s taking care of me. Just like fixing my car and painting my brace, Tate’s giving me something I’ve never had. Swore I never wanted.

And I don’t know how to make it stop.

All I know is I have to figure out a way to do it. I can’t be like my mother.

Won’t.

Not even for someone like him.

7

OOPS AGAIN

TATE

THE CELLAR IS as busy as it always is on the Friday nights we play. Normally, the crowd packing the basement bar in downtown Memphis wouldn't bother me, but tonight I’m in a fucking foul mood. Have been for well over a week now. All because of the dark-haired woman who’s been pretending I don’t exist all week.

"They’re wound up tonight." Simon passes me a bottle of water before dropping down into one of the chairs they leave for us backstage. "Stella’ll be happy. The louder they are, the more they drink."

I like Stella, the owner of the retro style speakeasy. When Simon, Christian and I decided to cut back on how often Sinners and Saints performed, we decided to limit our engagements to the Cellar. It’s clean, well-run, and the setup suits our needs perfectly. I want the place to do well. Want Stella to rake in money hand over fist.