Flower(32)

I take an unconscious step toward him, closing the distance between us to the merest inch. I want to feel him again, the taste of his mouth, hot and cold all at once. I stop breathing.

His fingers touch my waist, pressing into my hip bone. But he doesn’t draw me nearer, just pushes gently against me, stopping me. He blinks, then refocuses.

“We’re taking it slow, remember?” he says.

His eyes shift from my lips up to my eyes and I nearly laugh. I’ve spent my life avoiding guys—guys like Tate, especially. I thought they’d only want one thing from me and now here he is, telling me to slow down.

“Right,” I say, forcing my body to straighten.

I should be glad that he wants to go slow. I shouldn’t want anything more. And yet...

“Good night, Charlotte Reed,” he says, releasing his fingers where they have lingered against my hip.

“Good night, Tate Collins,” I answer, my voice much softer than his, and I take a step away, up the sidewalk.

I can hear the low hum of the Tesla idling behind me, but I don’t look back. I refuse to be the girl who looks back. But I know his eyes watch me until I disappear around the corner.

And I can still feel his eyes on me long after I’ve buried myself between the cool sheets of my bed, pulling a pillow over my face and replaying the way his fingers swept deftly across my hip, keeping me from moving any closer, from touching him, from kissing him.

And I fall asleep dreaming about his hands.





TEN

MY PHONE IS VIBRATING ON the bedside table. I roll over just in time to see it fall from the edge onto the floor, still buzzing.

I reach down and pick it up.

I slept in. It’s nearly ten a.m.

There’s a missed call from Carlos, a voice mail, probably asking me what time I can meet up to study today. And there’s a text from Tate.

Immediately, I open the text: I want you to see what I see.

I read it again, then twice more. I drop the phone onto the pale yellow comforter I’ve kicked off me and brush my hair back from my eyes. What does he mean? I think about responding with a question mark, but my phone vibrates again.

Tate: I’m outside.

I spring up from the bed.

There’s no time to shower, so I shimmy out of my pajama shorts and tank top and dig through my narrow dresser for a clean bra and underwear, texting my excuses to Carlos in between pulling on each article of clothing. My bedroom window is open and the morning breeze is balmy. I dress in jean shorts—not the same pair from yesterday—and a pale pink shirt with a scoop neck that clings to the curves of my body. Every time I wear it Carlos whistles and says, “Damn, girl.”

On Saturday mornings, Grandma goes to the senior center for Zumba. So the only person I have to contend with is Mia.

I find her in the kitchen, washing Leo’s bottles, her sleeves rolled up and hair slipping out of a low bun.

“Where you going?” she asks, wiping her forearm across her forehead, water dripping down her temple.

“Out...to meet Carlos,” I say.

“You usually do homework on Saturdays,” she says absently, like she’s not really interested in the answer.

I reach the front door, gripping the knob. I would prefer to tell as few lies as possible—so the sooner I leave the better. “Yeah. That’s what we’re doing. Working on calculus stuff.” I wince—my voice sounds so false. But Mia doesn’t seem to notice.

“I thought you could watch Leo for me tonight. I’m supposed to meet Greg at the Palapa. They’re having live music.”

“Greg?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know, Greg. The guy I had to cancel on a few weeks back because your extracurriculars are way more important than helping out your sister and spending time with your nephew?” Her words are harsh but her voice just sounds tired. “So, can you watch Leo tonight?”

I stare down at my hand on the knob. I want to help her—I really do. “Sure,” I say. “If I’m back in time.” I turn the doorknob quickly. I need to get out of here before she asks any more questions. “But no guarantees.”

“Charlotte,” she calls, but I’m already shutting the door behind me. I jog down the stairs before Mia can say anything else.

Tate is waiting for me a block away, the Tesla purring in place, around the corner where he dropped me off last night. My heart is thumping from the sprint and I take in a deep breath before opening the door.

“I was beginning to think you were standing me up,” Tate says when I slide onto the passenger seat.

“You didn’t give me much warning. I was still in bed.”

His dimple flashes and his eyes flicker from some thought skating through his mind. I smile as he revs the engine and pulls away from the curb.

“I realized that I need to work harder to impress you,” Tate says as we cross over into the polished neighborhoods of Beverly Hills, where the hedges are ten feet tall and gates guard the mansions inside. It’s a funny thing about living in LA: A crappy house like ours is only a short drive from the biggest mansions in the world. A girl like me can meet a guy like Tate, like we exist in the same world. It’s hard to imagine, and yet here we are.

“Impress me?” I ask, facing him. He watches the road as we glide past silver Mercedes and white Bentleys and steel-gray Ferraris, all with windows rolled down to let in the warm Pacific air.