Flower(33)

“Renting out the famous Lumiere Theater to watch Casablanca apparently does not impress Charlotte Reed.”

“Trust me, I was impressed.”

“It’s okay,” he says, one eyebrow lifting, like he’s not buying it. “I like a challenge.”

He makes a sudden turn, pulling to a stop in front of a small valet stand.

“You don’t need expensive things to be beautiful,” Tate continues, his gaze seeming to take in each feature of my face. “But I want you to have them anyway.”

“I don’t understand,” I say as he opens his door. “What are we doing?” But he’s already walking around to my door, extending a hand to help me out. I step onto the sidewalk and look up at an impressive black awning, the words Barneys New York in white letters.

“Tate?” I ask, craning my head upward. I’ve seen Barneys from the outside, of course, but I’ve never stopped, never actually gotten out of the car. As if I knew they wouldn’t even allow me to park my Volvo anywhere near here.

“Come on,” Tate says, suddenly beside me, tossing his keys to a valet. He slips his fingers into mine and pulls me forward, but I stop at the doors before going inside, my stomach starting to flutter with nerves.

“I don’t think—” I begin, unsure how to explain what I’m feeling.

“What’s wrong?”

“You don’t need to do this,” I say, but he folds his arm around my waist and draws me to him. It’s the most contact we’ve had since I showed up at his house the other night, and my body catches fire at the feeling of his arms around me.

“Charlotte, I saw the way you looked at those girls yesterday—after the movie? And I don’t know how many times I can tell you how beautiful you are, but for some reason you don’t see it. So I was thinking last night that maybe you need to feel beautiful, too. That maybe I can do that for you.”

I smile, blushing again at the word beautiful. I know I’m pretty enough, mostly because Mia and I look so similar, but I’ve always downplayed my looks. They’re not important to me, they never have been. But I can’t help but glance toward the doors of Barneys, and wonder what’s inside.

“You do,” I tell him, meeting his dark eyes. “You already make me feel that way. But this...it’s too much.”

“It’s not. And I told you, I like a challenge.” He tilts his head down, his lips grazing my cheek.

A shudder races through me, and I draw in a shallow breath, biting the edge of my lower lip. “Okay,” I acquiesce and he pulls me inside, his fingers strumming against mine: a rhythm, a beat tapping from his fingertips, as if music is inside him, wanting to be let out.

Inside the store, Tate speaks to a woman who seems to have been expecting us, and before long I am being led by two salesgirls through what can only be deemed a fashionista’s paradise. They pull short sequined dresses and silky tops and black leggings from the racks, swiftly carrying them away as soon as I’ve agreed to try them on. They lead me through floor after floor, a whirl of departments and brands and price tags far too expensive. And the entire time Tate is close by, sometimes looking distracted, like he’s worried he might be seen by one of the other customers moving about the store, but whenever our eyes meet, he smiles—enjoying this maybe more than I am.

Eventually, the two salesgirls usher me back to the fitting rooms; they help zip zippers that I can’t reach and smooth out wrinkles in the fabric when I stand before a massive full-length mirror. They swap out sizes and bring me shoes to try with different outfits. Soon I can’t even keep track of what I’ve tried on and what I liked. But they seem to have a system.

Occasionally, I emerge from the dressing room to show Tate, but he rarely gives his opinion. “If you love it, then get it,” he says, smiling. “And stop looking at prices. It doesn’t matter,” he adds when I try to put back a dress because it costs more than I make in an entire year.

My mind gets hazy somewhere around outfit number twelve, but before I know it, we’re heading back out the doors, an enormous bag tucked under Tate’s arm.

I’m not ready to think about how much he spent. Instead I smile down at the much smaller bag looped around my wrist. As embarrassed as I’d been when the salesgirls had brought me the pretty, pale blue push-up bra to try on under one of the dresses, the reflection in the mirror had been so...un-me, so strangely grown-up, that I knew it had to be mine, no matter the cost. It’s the one item I wouldn’t let Tate see or pay for. I considered it a personal victory when he moved away from the cash register with only a token amount of grumbling.

Outside, I look for the valet but Tate grabs my hand. “Time for the next surprise,” he says, tugging me down Wilshire before I can protest.

The salon is tucked back off a side street. A discreet stucco building with a sign that reads simply Q. A man steps into the waiting area and introduces himself as Steven. His bleached blond hair stands up from his forehead like spikes on a fence, and when he smiles, it reveals a narrow gap between his two front teeth. Like Hank, he is tall and built like a weight lifter, with arms that flex beneath a skintight lavender shirt.

I look back at Tate once more, savoring his reassuring smile as the man leads me into a long rectangular room, to a seat among a row of empty chairs facing a stretch of mirrors.