Tell Me Something True (A Mount Laurel Romance Book 2), page 1
Tell Me Something True
Beth Andrews
Contents
Copyright
Content Advisory
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Beth Andrews Book List
About Beth
Copyright © 2024 by Beth Burgoon
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented.
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This is a work of fiction created without the use of AI technology. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Photo: Lindee Robinson Photography
Cover designer: Sarah Kil Creative Studio
Editing: The Author Buddy
Content Advisory
Dear Reader,
Please be aware of the following themes within Tell Me Something True:
Physical and sexual abuse (mentioned as part of a character's past), off-page death of parents (as part of a character's past), and anxiety, including on-page descriptions of a main character's anxiety attacks.
Read with care.
Hugs,
Beth
For those who have been hurt and abandoned by the people who should have loved them the most.
You are not alone.
You are worth fighting for.
Chapter 1
“Hey there, handsome,” a woman said from behind him. “It’s been a long time.”
In the act of lifting his beer bottle to his mouth, Miles Jennings froze. He knew that voice. Would recognize it anywhere.
He just hadn’t thought he’d ever hear it again.
He sure as hell hadn’t thought he’d hear it in his hometown of Mount Laurel, let alone at The Cockeyed Chameleon on a random Thursday night.
Just when he started to think fate was done messing with him, it ripped the rug out from underneath him, knocking him off his feet.
It liked to prove it was in charge that way.
But while he’d learned he couldn’t control everything that happened to him, he could control his own actions. He had choices. In what he said and did. He had free will.
He had his pride.
And nothing was going to take that away from him.
She wasn’t going to take it from him. Not again.
He refused to show his shock. Wouldn’t let her know how unsettled he was.
How eager he was to see her again.
Instead, he finished raising his beer to his mouth. Took a long pull, the action slow.
Rude.
She deserved it for showing up here after walking out on him without a word ten years ago. For sneaking up on him when he’d been watching the Pirates’ game on the TV above the bar and minding his own goddamn business.
Setting the beer down, he took a deep, quiet inhale and braced himself for whatever hell was about to be wrought. Then he turned.
As soon as he met her blue eyes, everything inside of him went still. Calm. The incessant chatter in his head for once went silent.
He took refuge in that moment. The quiet. The peace.
He wished he could stay there, in that place where he had no worries. Where he wasn’t constantly on guard. Where the past didn’t exist and the present wasn’t slowly, inevitably about to unfold in a way guaranteed to take a chunk out of that pride he’d been trying so hard to hold onto.
But all too soon, sound returned in the form of low murmurs of conversation going on around him, the soft clinking of glasses, and Cheap Trick’s “Surrender” playing through the bar’s sound system.
“Tabitha. What are you doing here?”
“It’s good to see you,” she said, soft and sweet to his sharp and surly.
Evading his question.
Sipping his beer, he let his eyes drift over her, skimming up her legs, past the flare of her waist, the curve of her breasts. His fingers curled as he took in her face, his gaze touching briefly on the angle of her jaw, the arch of her brows.
She’d changed.
Her hair, once a bright, sunny blonde, had deepened to a rich golden hue. Her face was slimmer, her cheekbones more pronounced. Her hips were curvier, her breasts fuller.
Gone was the pretty eighteen-year-old girl who’d rarely used more than mascara and lip balm. Who’d lived in faded, ripped jeans, second-hand concert tees, and battered Converse sneakers. Whose hair was either clipped up in a messy bun or loose and curling wildly around her face.
In her place stood a fully grown woman with carefully applied makeup, her eyeliner subtly winged, her lips a muted red. Her hair was slicked back into a neat knot, and she wore a skinny black skirt that hugged her hips and ended just above her knees, a thin red belt, a silky white button up shirt, and four-inch-high red heels.
Yeah. She sure as hell had changed.
Goddamn her.
Gone was the girl he’d known. The girl he’d been in love with.
It wasn’t just that she’d changed—after a fucking decade, he expected no less.
And it wasn’t the physical changes he could so clearly see that pissed him off.
It was because this new version of Tabitha Ewings—if Ewings was still her last name—was a stranger.
And it was going to replace the image of her he’d held in his head all these years.
The image he’d learned to live with when he’d had to learn to live without her.
With a smirk, he lifted his gaze to hers so she could see his disdain. Trying to enact some petty revenge in the hopes of making himself feel like he had the upper hand in this situation. But it was a mistake because she smiled. Wide and warm, bright and genuine.
As if she really was glad to see him.
And she’d missed him as much as he’d missed her.
Some primal part inside of him roared to life, like a wild animal sensing its mate. Adrenalin raced through him, had his muscles tensing, ready to give chase. His fingers curled, ready to grab what was meant to be his.
To conquer.
To claim.
Except he’d felt those things before. The same sense of certainty. Of completeness. Like two puzzle pieces locking into place.
Like they were meant to be together.
But it’d been a lie.
“I asked what you’re doing here,” he reminded her.
Her smile wobbled. Dimmed.
But then she shored it up again, amping up the sunniness by a few thousand degrees, about blinding him in the process. “I’m joining an old friend for a drink.”
He frowned. Glanced around. There was a middle-aged white couple seated at a table near the hallway leading to the bathrooms, a younger Black woman and white man occupying the table by the front window, and a trio of white, twenty-something guys at the pool table flirting with Hayden Stabinski, the bartender, while she delivered their drinks.
Slow night at The Cockeyed Chameleon.
Exactly why Miles was here instead of at Binge, his brother Toby’s restaurant downtown.
And while he searched the bar for whoever Tabitha could possibly know in Mount Laurel that qualified as an old friend, she lifted her ass onto the stool next to him.
“Is that what you think we are?” he asked while she set her purse on
Facing him, she tipped her head to the side. “Can you think of a better description?”
When she looked at him with her big blue eyes and innocent expression, it was easy to forget it was all an act.
It was that angelic face of hers. The vulnerability in her eyes she couldn’t quite hide. They made it easy to believe she was a wounded bird that needed to be cared for. Protected.
Too easy to believe every word she said.
“We used to fuck,” he said, the words quiet. Brutal.
“Careful,” she chided lightly, the insult of his words rolling off her. “Your sentimental side is showing.”
He leaned toward her, resting his left elbow on the bar, his right hand on the edge of her stool, his thumb mere inches from her thigh. Close enough to feel the heat from her body. To hear the slight catch of her breath.
Close enough to know the pull between them was as strong as ever.
“We used to fuck,” he repeated, slow and even. “But we were never friends. We were nothing. You proved that when you left without a word.”
She flinched, the movement quick and slight, before she dropped her gaze.
He’d surprised her.
Hurt her.
Neither were like the boy he’d been. The Miles she’d known had been kind and honest to a fucking fault. He’d held nothing back. Gave her his feelings freely. Shared his truths in the hopes that she’d share hers.
That Miles had been an idiot.
When she lifted her head, her eyes were clear, her smile long gone. She ran the tip of her forefinger back and forth along her chin, just under her lower lip—back and forth, once… twice… three times before curling her fingers and dropping her hand.
She’d always rubbed the thin scar on her chin—hidden now under her makeup—when she was nervous.
Another thing that hadn’t changed.
It made him want to find out what else was the same.
“I didn’t leave without a word. I left you a note.”
He raised his eyebrows. Yes. She’d left him a note, two words scribbled on the back of a piece of junk mail.
I’m sorry.
She cleared her throat. “And I didn’t feel comfortable blurting out our past physical relationship in case someone overheard. I remember you mentioning how quickly rumors can spread in a small town, and I didn’t want word to get back to your wife.”
She glanced at his left hand.
He slid it off the bar and to his side, hiding it from her view.
“You remembered that?” he asked, refusing to answer the question she was really asking.
Her frown was a flash of irritation, here then gone.
She laid her hand on his forearm, and he realized he was still too close to her. As if he had every right to invade her personal space all because he wanted to prove something. To see her reaction.
To test his own willpower.
He stared down at his arm. Her hand was pale against his skin, her fingers cool. She wore several silver rings—on her thumb, forefinger and pinkie.
No engagement ring.
No wedding band.
And he’d drop to his knees and lick the floor before he admitted he’d been wondering about her, too.
“I remember,” she said. “I remember how much this place, these people mean to you. I remember how much you love your family. I remember how excited you were to come back here and serve your community.” She ducked her head and finished on a whisper by his ear. “I remember everything.”
He stopped breathing. His heart thudded heavily as he lifted his head, his nose brushing the underside of her chin. She even smelled different, her perfume no longer vanilla and spice, but something softer, more floral.
And it pushed him over the edge.
“Me, too,” he murmured, his lips moving against her upper cheek. “I remember everything.”
At his admission her fingers twitched, then curled around his forearm. “Miles, I—”
“I remember the first time I saw you. The first time I kissed you. I remember the feel of your mouth against mine and the taste of your pussy,” he continued softly, so no one could overhear. “I remember the sounds you made when I fucked you. How it felt to have you come on my cock. I remember how you looked on your knees sucking me.”
Her breath caught and she trembled. Shifted her thighs, the motion restless. Telling.
She remembered all that, too. Remembered how good it had been between them. How explosive.
She remembered.
Good.
Because he couldn’t forget.
For months those memories had tortured him. He’d had to force himself not to think of her when he was with another woman or masturbating in the shower.
Through sheer will, determination, and unmatched stubbornness, he’d finally stopped fantasizing about her.
But he’d never stopped dreaming of her.
He straightened and pulled his arm from underneath her hand. “I remember everything,” he repeated, moderating his tone so there was no lingering anger. No longing or desire. “Everything we did. Everything you kept hidden from me. And I remember coming home that day and finding your note. So, if you’re in Mount Laurel thinking you can walk back into my life, you’ve wasted your time.”
“This may be difficult for that massive ego you’ve acquired to hear, but me running into you here is merely a coincidence.”
“A coincidence,” he repeated flatly. “And yet, you still haven’t said what you’re doing in Mount Laurel.”
“Just passing through. But someone recommended the burgers here—”
“It’s almost midnight.”She smiled, as if he was adorable with his small-town ways of eating dinner before nine p.m. “Yes, but I was hungry, and they mentioned the kitchen here stays open late. I had no idea you’d be here. You can imagine my surprise when I walked in and saw you.”
“What a shock that must have been.”
She ignored his sardonic tone. “And when I did see you, I thought that after all these years, despite the way things ended, it would be nice to catch up with a man I used to know. A man I cared about.”
Bitterness rose into his throat, sharp and acidic. She’d cared about him?
He’d loved her. Had wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
And she’d left him.
“You’re lying.”
She blinked rapidly, three times, a chink in her otherwise impenetrable armor. “Excuse me?”
Yeah, a definite chink. One that was clear in her chilly tone.
“You,” he said slowly, succinctly, “are lying.”
Mouth flat, she crossed her arms. Must have realized how defensive the gesture was because she dropped her arms. “Or maybe you’re just overly suspicious.”
“Maybe.” He was a cop after all. Suspicion came with the job. But so did digging for the truth. “Doesn’t make me wrong, though. And I don’t believe you’re just passing through my hometown or that you showing up here is anything innocent or accidental. And it sure as hell isn’t a coincidence.”
Her smile was back, her expression soft, her eyes bright. As if his notions about her were crazy, but she was willing to indulge him and his silly, skeptical ways. “Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care.”
He no longer wanted her truth. Would never again beg her for whatever scraps she’d toss his way. He just wanted her gone.
She held his gaze, searching for something. Trying to find a weak spot in the walls he’d built, some area she could poke or prod or wiggle her way through.
But he’d given her everything he had once before. Everything he was.
There was nothing left.
“I realize that how we left things—”
“We didn’t leave anything,” he interrupted smoothly. “You left.”
Her gaze dropped, but it was only a moment before she met his eyes again, chin set in determination.
“I realize,” she said again, “that the way things ended between us wasn’t ideal. Just as I realize my leaving that way wasn’t my finest hour. But it’s been ten years—”
“I know how long it’s been.”
“Long enough,” she added, “for us both to have gotten past it.”
“That would be true, except for one problem.”
“And what’s that?”
“I don’t want to get past it.”
She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture when there was nothing helpless about her. “So you’re going to hate me forever?”
