Flower(10)

“Still not answering my question,” I counter, pointing to my phone. “How did you get my number?”

There goes the dimple. “Let’s just say I have...resources at my disposal.”

“What sort of resources?” I ask.

“People who figure things out for me.” Another non-answer. But if he has people, he must have more money than I first thought.

“Don’t you think that gives you an unfair advantage?” I ask.

“I think I need any advantage I can get.” His gaze holds me captive through the glass windows and I can’t seem to look away. “But now you have my phone number, too, so we’re even.”

“I didn’t want your number,” I tell him, glad that the darkness hides my telltale smile. I’m enjoying this too much.

“I think you did,” he says. “Otherwise you would have hung up by now.”

Several seconds pass and I can hear his breathing on the other end. It makes my stomach quiver and a warmth brush over my skin. “Is there a reason you stopped by tonight? I noticed you didn’t come bearing coffee this time.”

“You want coffee, it’s yours,” he says. “But this time you’re drinking it with me.”

“I—”

“It’s Friday night, Charlotte. Go out with me.”

There are countless reasons to say no. My mother’s past. My sister’s present. My future.

“One date,” he continues, his voice low, almost hypnotic. “Say yes. What do you have to lose?”

Everything, I think.

But my chest flutters. My mind swims with delirious thoughts of being close to him again, breathing in his rich, heady scent—and maybe feeling his touch against my skin just one more time. That’s all I need, just one more moment with him and then I can forget about him completely. I know I’m bargaining with myself. But I don’t care. I can feel myself giving in. “If I go out with you once, will you stop coming here?”

“I swear,” he answers, and I look to see that he’s pressed his hand against the glass of the door as if to seal the pact. My skin burns as if he’s touching me. I end the call, not trusting my voice to be steady.

I deliberately make him wait as I finish up in the shop, needing a moment to regain my composure. When I finally slip outside, he’s leaning against the car, and my heart starts racing all over again. He smiles, and for a second, his face is more open than I’ve seen it before.

“Well?” I say, hoping it’s too dark for him to see my flushed cheeks.

“You won’t regret this, Charlotte.”

*

We walk up Sunset Boulevard, on the fringes of Beverly Hills, where cafes dot the sidewalk, yellow and red umbrellas raised over round tables, white linens, and people sipping cocktails in the balmy evening air. It’s a different universe from where I live in Hollywood, even though it’s only ten minutes away.

Tate is quiet for several blocks and I like the silence. I’m afraid of what he might say if he speaks. Of what I might say in return.

“Are you hungry?” he asks finally, running a hand over his shaved head, only the short stubble indicating what color his hair might have once been: dark brown, I think.

“I guess,” I answer, scratching at my wrist, rubbing over the lopsided triangle inked there, a self-made tattoo of blue ballpoint pen.

“There’s a great place a few blocks up,” he says. “Lola’s.”

I laugh, but then I see he’s serious. One dinner at Lola’s probably costs more than I make in a week. “Will they even let us in?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because we’re...” I pause, searching for the right way to explain, then spot a couple walking toward us, hand in hand. The guy is wearing a sharp gray suit, talking on his cell phone, ignoring the girl on his arm wearing studded high heels. “Because we’re not them,” I point out, nodding only slightly as they pass, all elegance and sophistication.

Tate glances at me sidelong, amused. “Good point,” he says. “Then we’ll sneak in through the back. I know a guy in the kitchen.” One corner of his mouth is drawn up, and his eyes are wild with something mischievous. I shake my head.

But I don’t stop walking; I don’t tell him that I should probably go back to the flower shop, where my rusted powder-blue Volvo is waiting. That I should go home. I don’t want to admit it, but I like this feeling: the stirring in my stomach, the flood of warmth across my neck and cheeks whenever he looks at me. Just one date, I remind myself. One date won’t throw me off track. Just one date and he’ll leave me alone.

I almost believe myself.

The windows of Lola’s glow ahead of us, lit almost exclusively by candlelight. Carlos and I have strolled past slowly many times—Carlos hoping to spot any one of his many Hollywood crushes, me just along for the ride. But we’ve never been so lucky. It’s nearly impossible to see the faces of anyone inside anyway, because it’s so dark. Which I’m sure is the point.

As we get closer, Tate grabs my hand briefly and pulls me down into an alley. His palm is warm and strong, and I suck in a breath at the unexpected contact. He thumps his fist against a metal door once, then turns back to look at me. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes seem ignited.