Flower(18)

Her eyes flicker just barely and I smile politely, moving past her to the sinks. But she follows my movement, her gaze fluttering over me like she knows me. The faucet automatically turns on when I stick my hands underneath it and the water is cool, streaming between my fingers.

“You should stay away from him,” she mutters suddenly, her reflection staring at me through the mirror.

“Excuse me?”

Her lips turn down. “Consider this a friendly piece of advice.”

My eyes flick to the door. Voices pass by outside but no one comes in. “What are you talking about?” I ask. But I have a sinking feeling I already know.

She takes a step toward me, as if she’s trying to gauge something, size me up. I back against the bathroom counter, palms tightening around the edge.

“For your own good, stay away from Tate Collins,” she whispers, eyes unblinking.

She looks as though she’s going to say something else, but then the bathroom door swings open and the two Tate fangirls walk in, chatting loudly. The Goth girl flinches at the sight of them, her body stiffening. My mouth starts to open, to say something, when she darts for the exit, slipping out before the door swings shut.

What the hell was that? I gulp in a deep breath and sag back against the counter. One of the groupies glances over at me, looking like she wants to ask me something, but I’ve had enough of unsolicited bathroom chats. I head for the door and push it open a crack, peering out into the noisy coffee shop. The girl is gone.

Outside, Carlos is reclining in his chair, chin tilted to the sunlight streaming through the trees. “Fall in much?” he asks, peeling open one eye to stare up at me. Thankfully, he doesn’t appear to have overheard any chatter from nearby tables about the recent Tate Collins sighting while I was gone. I sink back down into my chair.

I should tell him about Goth girl. But then I’d have to admit I went out with Tate Collins, and I’m not ready to revisit the humiliation. And really, there’s no problem with heeding her “friendly advice”—I plan on staying far, far away from Tate, regardless. I just want to put it all behind me.

I want to forget last week ever happened.





SIX

I CAN’T FIND A PARKING spot close to the flower shop, so I have to jog five blocks with my book bag thumping against my ribs. I know Holly won’t be mad that I’m late—it almost never happens—but I still feel bad for making her wait nearly half an hour. I was already rattled from Goth girl, and then got stuck on a verb conjugation and lost track of time. After we walked back to school, my run-down old Volvo—a piece of crap I purchased last year for six hundred dollars with money I saved from working at the Bloom Room—wouldn’t start. We were there for twenty minutes in the student parking lot, the engine wheezing each time I turned the key, until it finally groaned and chugged to life. Clearly, it hasn’t been my day.

I grab the handle on the front door and swing it open, out of breath and sweating. “Sorry,” I say quickly as I step inside, but then I stop abruptly, shocked by the scene before me.

“Can you believe it?” Holly asks. She’s seated behind the counter, her heart-shaped face lit a soft blue by the computer screen, her dirty-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. I don’t respond—I can’t. My eyes are scanning the store, the empty displays and racks where bouquets usually sit. Every flower, every bouquet and plant arrangement is gone. Completely gone. Only a few petals and broken leaves are left, scattered across the floor.

“Did we get robbed?” I ask, stunned.

“No, it’s even weirder! He bought the entire store,” she chirps. “Every last flower.”

I let the door swing shut behind me, the bell dinging overhead.

“Who did?” I ask, although once again, I’m afraid I already know.

“Tate Collins—the singer,” Holly answers, her voice thrilled, her blue eyes wide with amazement. “He called an hour ago, said he wanted to deliver them all to the children’s hospital on Wilshire—the delivery trucks just left.” Holly grins, lifts her hands in the air, then drops them against her thighs. “I don’t understand it, but it certainly made our quota for the month. I was going to call you earlier, but it’s been such a whirlwind—sorry. Anyway, there’s nothing for us to sell. Hopefully, I can have more inventory shipped overnight, otherwise we might be closed tomorrow, too. Don’t worry, you’ll still get paid for the hours.”

I nod numbly. I can’t believe he did this. Does he think he can buy my forgiveness?

The door behind me chimes again as someone steps inside.

“Sorry to interrupt. You must be Holly, Charlotte’s boss.”

I swivel around and see Tate standing just inside the front door, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a dark gray button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled partially up his arms, and dark jeans. It’s nicer than his attire from the coffee shop earlier, and he looks...good. Really good.

Holly stands abruptly, dropping a piece of paper onto the floor. Her total disbelief is clear on her face. “Yes,” she says, her voice higher than usual. “I am. And you’re—” She clears her throat. “You’re Tate Collins.”

“Thank you for delivering all those flowers on such short notice,” he says smoothly. His eyes stray briefly to me and I shoot him a glare, not amused by what he’s trying to do.