This Much is True Read online

  This Much is True

  Tia Louise

  This Much is True

  By Tia Louise

  A smart and sexy romance about a grumpy single dad on a mission of revenge, and the girl he can’t leave behind by USA Today bestselling author Tia Louise.

  Hope

  I blame the alcohol.

  I lost my restaurant business, was forced to sell my dad’s cherished 1967 Chevy Impala, and I got a little drunk.

  Now I’m waking up with the hottest, angriest guy I’ve ever seen, speeding down the highway like a bat out of hell.

  Ice-blue eyes hit mine with stomach-clenching force…

  And he swerves onto the shoulder, ready to kick me out.

  Needless to say, our romance doesn’t start out sweet.

  J.R.

  Two years ago, I hugged my little boy goodbye and told him I’d be right back.

  Next thing I knew, I was arrested and sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.

  Until they let me out early…

  Now I’m headed home to confront the man who put me away.

  A lie put me behind bars, and I’m ready to find the truth.

  I don’t have time for a sexy girl with pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes stowed away on the backseat of my new car.

  My mission is to get my son back and clear my name.

  Love is not on the agenda.

  It never is, though, is it?

  (THIS MUCH IS TRUE is a single-dad, opposites attract, stand-alone romance. No cheating. No cliffhangers.)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This Much is True

  Copyright © TLM Productions LLC, 2020

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Cover design by Lori Jackson Design.

  Photography by Wander Aguiar.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Preface

  Prologue

  1. Hope

  2. Jr

  3. Hope

  4. Jr

  5. Hope

  6. Jr

  7. Hope

  8. Jr

  9. Jr

  10. Hope

  11. Jr

  12. Hope

  13. Jr

  14. Hope

  15. Jr

  16. Hope

  17. Jr

  18. Jr

  19. Hope

  20. Jr

  21. Hope

  22. Jr

  23. Hope

  24. Jr

  25. Hope

  26. Jr

  27. Hope

  28. Hope

  29. Jr

  30. Hope

  Epilogue

  When We Touch

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Stay

  Prologue

  Books by Tia Louise

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedicated to my amazing readers.

  It’s been a tough year.

  I hope you’re hanging in there. I hope your loved ones are well. I hope this story helps you laugh, swoon and forget about your worries for a little while.

  Sending you so much love,

  Thank you always for your support,

  Tia

  “Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes.”

  -Ella Wheeler Wilcox

  In the waves of change we find our true direction.

  Prologue

  JR

  With my back to the San Francisco traffic, I hold the railing of the iconic, vermillion bridge and watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.

  Two hundred and forty-five feet below me, the frigid water of the bay swirls past, and behind me is the building where I spent the last eighteen months of my life, paying for a crime I didn’t commit.

  My hair is long to my collar. My body is lean and ripped with muscle to intimidate anyone who thought he’d get the best of me.

  I’ve lived with the funk of brown Lysol, body odor, and urine so long, I forgot fresh air could smell so sweet.

  At five p.m., a guard came to my cell, rattled the bars like some old cheesy black and white movie, and told me to get my shit together.

  Time to go.

  I was halfway through a four-year prison sentence, and last night, they said it was over, early release.

  Confused is an understatement for how I felt, but I wasn’t about to argue. I started making plans.

  “You can thank the tree huggers for this miscarriage of justice.” The woman behind the desk scowled as she spoke, like the words tasted bad. “Wouldn’t want you getting sick. It might violate your civil rights.”

  Rage smoldered in my chest, and I didn’t make eye contact with her. This whole eighteen months has been a violation of my civil rights, but why should she care?

  Since the start of this nightmare, nobody cared. I said it once, twice, three thousand times. I. Didn’t. Do. It.

  Nobody gave a shit.

  Not even my court-appointed lawyer believed me. I was caught with illegal human growth hormone, and that’s all they saw. No one looked at the receipt for perfectly legal adaptogen supplements, which is what I thought I was picking up. I was a redneck from South Carolina with a trunk full of HGH. Case closed.

  I entered San Quentin and kept my head down. I made allies with the biggest, meanest guys, and the quiet ones who stayed to themselves. I learned to be ready to fight always.

  I started my prison sentence resolved the next time I saw my father, I wouldn’t let up until he was begging for mercy.

  Now I’m a free man.

  Sort of.

  I’m out, and I’m headed back to look him in the eye. He sent me here, and I want to know why.

  Staring out across the dark waters, I make a vow. I’m getting back everything I’ve lost. I don’t know how the man who put me here will make it happen, but we’ll sort that out when I get home.

  Snatching my navy canvas bag off the ground, I start walking.

  Hope

  I shouldn’t have drunk that whole bottle of wine.

  The sea breeze pushes my blonde hair off my face and twists my skirt between my legs. I pull my fluffy beige coat tighter around my chest, and when I wet my lips, salt touches my tongue.

  It’s rough out tonight, the wind whips hard and the waves crash, but it suits my mood. My insides are twisted and stormy, everything is crashing around me…

  The beach path along the shore of San Francisco bay is deserted—just like everything these days—and I cut a wobbly path in my progress towards the bridge.

  Two iconic, vermillion towers rise in the distance, a string of lights tracing the edges, and I think of a ship passing in the night.

  Blurring my eyes, I imagine I’m in an Alfred Hitchcock movie… or Mike Myers… So I married an axe murderer…

  A dip in the soft sand makes me stumble, and the empty bottle slips from my fingers. It hits the ground with a dull thump, but I keep walking. I should go back and get it, be a responsible citizen, carry it to a recycling bin, but I don’t.

  I push on.

  Large boulders separate me from the path up to the bridge. They feel metaphoric. I gaze up at the network of iron and cables and try to sing my favorite ABBA song. “I have a dream…”

  My voice wavers and breaks on a sharp inhale, but I push back. I square my
shoulders and summon my daily affirmations…

  I am doing better than I think I am.

  My future is bright, and my best days are still ahead of me.

  I am strong enough to face what’s in front of me.

  My life isn’t over, and I never give up without a fight…

  But I’m so tired. I’m not sure I believe them anymore.

  Pulling out my phone, I text my best friend Yarnell. How long would it take for me to walk to Half Moon Bay?

  At this point, I think I could walk all night.

  Her reply buzzes the phone in my loose grip. Why would you walk all the way to my apartment?

  Staring at the words, I sway slightly as I tap the phone icon. I need to hear a voice.

  “If you’re at my door, I’m not letting you in without a temperature check.” My bestie is such a drama queen.

  “I’m having an existential crisis.”

  “You’re such a drama queen.”

  My jaw drops. “You are!”

  “Why are you threatening to walk all the way to my apartment? Just drive.”

  Inhaling slowly, I clear the thickness in my throat, looking up at the fading twilight so I don’t cry. “I sold Metallicar.”

  “What?” A loud gasp then, “Nooo…”

  “Yep. They’re picking it up tomorrow. I am officially destitute.”

  And miserable.

  Years ago, we nicknamed Dad’s cherished black 1967 Chevy Impala “Metallicar” after our favorite TV show Supernatural.

  He gave it to me before he went into the nursing home after his bilateral knee replacement. It was supposed to be for short-term rehab… Neither of us expected it would turn into long-term rehab, and I can’t even visit him. He’s stuck there for the duration, and I’m flat broke.

  “I’m so sorry, Hope.” At least the sarcasm is gone from her tone. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the bridge.”

  “Hope Eternal Hill! What are you thinking?”

  Placing my fingers against my forehead, I scrub against the turmoil mounting in my brain. “I’m thinking about my name. Is it Hope Eternal? Or is it Eternal Hill? Because this hill feels like it’s growing taller and taller…”

  “What can I do? What do you need?”

  “I need a job, dammit! I’ve been doing my best to wait for things to go back to normal, but I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

  Ever since the shutdown killed Pancake Paradise, my dream restaurant business that I sank every dime into opening, it’s been harder and harder to make ends meet.

  “Work at one of those Amazon distribution centers. Everybody’s doing that now.”

  “And as a result, they’re not hiring.”

  “That’s impossible! They’re sending people into space so they can have Amazon distribution centers on the moon.”

  “Well, the earth-bound ones don’t need me.”

  I gaze up at the giant metal bridge again, wondering… There’s a sign up there—I can see it in my mind.

  Dad used to take me for a walk across the bridge when I was little. If we were feeling energetic, we’d try to jog all the way. Or we’d stand and look out at the Pacific Ocean, and I’d strain my ears, listening for the sound of the angels…

  Squinting my eyes, I try to hear them, but it’s all silence. It’s the hush of nonstop wind and the groan of barges.

  I used to hear them…

  Something moves along the edge, and I think I see a figure standing there, far away. A silhouette of a man.

  “Are you listening to me?” My bestie’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

  “Sorry, what?” My head is swimming, and I know I’m not thinking straight. Too much wine.

  “When we were kids, who said we could save our lemonade stand after Mrs. Blackburn ran over all our lemons with her car?”

  My brow furrows, and I shake my head. “Mrs. Blackburn was the worst driver. She almost hit me when I was riding my bike in the neighborhood. Twice!”

  “You said we could save it!” She pushes onward. “You didn’t let us give up!”

  “We were going to squeeze the lemons anyway…”

  “When we were in middle school, who said, ‘Our football team’s mascot might be a dove, but we can still have a kick-ass fight song!’”

  “We were twelve, Yars. I don’t think I said kick-ass.”

  Our parents were peace-loving super-hippies, but they still wouldn’t let us swear.

  “‘Peck ‘em up, Doves’ was a fight song for the ages!” Her voice rises like she’s giving the pep rally speech in one of those Friday Night Lights episodes.

  “More like a fight song for doofuses.”

  I can still see the large, white dove appliquéd to the front of our knee-length, royal blue cheer jumpers. Shivers.

  Our home-school collective played flag football because our parents said tackle football led to cognitive deficiencies and mood and behavior disorders.

  They tried to make us feel like all the other kids, but we knew we were weirdos.

  “Maybe I’ve always been a loser, and I just didn’t know it.”

  “You are not a loser! You’re the strongest person I know. You have always found a way through tough situations. And you always will!” I imagine the music swelling in the background, lights rising behind my bestie, and the roar of the crowd bursting through the stands. “Now say it! I am not jumping off that bridge!”

  My chin jerks back, like a record scratch. “I’m not jumping off the bridge, Yars.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  “No, seriously, I wasn’t—”

  “You’re going to get through this tough time. We all are, and we’re going to come back stronger for it.”

  “No, seriously. I was listening for the voices.”

  A beat.

  Silence on the line.

  I hold my phone out before putting it to my face again. “Did I lose you?”

  “The voices?” Her tone is cautious.

  “When I was a kid and we’d stand on the bridge facing the ocean, I believed I could hear angel voices singing above the water.”

  “Did you actually hear angel voices singing?”

  “In my imagination I heard them.”

  “Phew!” She exhales dramatically. “For a minute I thought we had a bigger problem.”

  “Bigger than me jumping off the bridge?” I’m teasing, but I’m still sad. “I don’t hear them anymore, Yars. They’ve stopped singing. I think that means something.”

  “It means you’re an adult living in the real world now.”

  Dropping my chin, I start back the way I came. The wind pushes my hair roughly, and I feel a tear on my cheek. “If only I could talk to Dad. I need a hug.”

  My dad could always help me regain my perspective. He would put his arm around me and tell me a story, something from when he was growing up or how he solved a problem.

  “I know you’re worried about him.” My friend’s voice softens. “But Shady Rest is taking great care of those guys. Heck, with your dad’s age and athleticism, he’s probably enjoying himself.”

  My eyes narrow. “He’s stuck in a nursing home, Yars.”

  “Your dad could always make the best of a bad situation. It’s where you get it from.”

  I’m approaching my family’s old beach house, noticing the graying boards and chipped paint. “He’d probably tell me to paint.”

  “You know…” Her voice grows quiet. “That old place is probably worth a million at least.”

  “I can’t sell the house. It’s been in our family since forever.” I don’t mention how it’s not even in my name. It would be admitting I’d considered it.

  “So you want to come here? You can crash on my couch.”

  “Maybe.” The small gate is stuck, so I walk around to the driveway. When I see the shiny black Impala parked out front, heaviness presses on my chest. I can’t imagine it being gone. “I’ll figure it out and see you in a few days.”

&
nbsp; “Hang in there, friend.”

  We disconnect, and I go to the car that holds so many memories, sliding my fingers along the fender to the door. Dad loved this car. He held onto it from when he was a teenager, maintaining it and updating it as needed.

  It was his pet project, and he always made sure it ran like a charm. All the belts were oiled, all the nuts and bolts replaced. How could anyone love it as much as he did?

  My heart is broken. I feel like I’m selling a cherished pet.

  “Oh, Dad.” I lift up on the driver’s side door handle and climb into the backseat, pressing my body against the leather and hugging my knees to my chest beneath my teddy coat. “I wish there was some way I didn’t have to do this.”

  Closing my eyes, I slide down to my side as the memories flood my mind. I remember being a little girl, seatbelt across my lap, holding the open window as we took her out for a spin.

  Dad would put on his favorite station, Sirius XM’s 60s on 6, and crank it.

  He was born in the 1960s, and he loved that silly old beach music. “Dawn” by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons was his favorite.

  Moving my lips, I speak the words in a broken whisper, Go away, I’m no good for you…

  I remember my gleaming eyes, my hair in pigtails. I remember smiling so hard my cheeks ached. The sun shone as we drove along the coastal highway singing along to the eternally cheerful surfer tunes.