Flower(55)

I’ll be there.

He texts me the code to his security gate and I lock my phone, gripping it in my palm.

“Hey,” I say to Carlos. “I have to go.”

“Where?” He glances up from his notepad.

“To—um, the lab, at UCLA. My professor needs me to fill in.”

“On a Sunday afternoon?”

“I know. Sucks. But I need to go.”

“But the rehearsal’s not over.”

“I got the photos I need. I promise they’ll do justice to your article,” I say, dropping the camera into my bag and hoisting it over my shoulder. “I’ll call you later.” I wave, already starting to back-step away.

“Okay, lame friend,” Carlos says, half teasing. But I sense he really isn’t happy I’m ditching him. Especially on Valentine’s Day, when we’re supposed to be single and miserable together.

I jog out to my car, swing my bag onto the passenger seat, then start the engine. My heart is already starting to race in anticipation.

At Tate’s driveway, I punch in the key code and smile to myself as the massive metal gate swings inward, allowing me to drive through. I’d asked him to let me into his life; I guess trusting me with his security code is a good place to start. I park and walk up to the towering front doors. I’m about to knock when I see that one of them is open a crack. I push against it. “Tate?” I call. But there’s no answer.

The house is dark, aside from the lights glowing dimly from the walls.

“Tate?” I call again, but still nothing.

I step farther into the house, down the steps into the lofty living room. I press my fingers against the glass overlooking the pool and the back lawn and the glimmer of LA far in the distance.

I don’t hear Tate move up behind me until his hands press against my waist, slipping around my hip bones. “Hi,” I say, starting to turn around to face him. But he holds me firmly in place, kissing the side of my neck, his lips sliding gently over my skin. The sensation ripples through me like electricity set free from its wires. It crackles and bursts and singes my fingertips where they linger on the cool surface of the glass.

Then one of his hands releases me and he turns me around, holding out a small blue box tied with white ribbon. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says simply.

I take it from him, holding the weight of it in my palm, realizing that this is the first time anyone has ever given me a gift for this particular holiday. “I didn’t get you anything,” I say, wishing I had thought to bring him something. Even though I have no idea what you buy someone who probably already has everything he needs.

“Yes you did,” he says, his voice tender. “You’re here—that’s all I need.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, then begin untying the ribbon from the box. When I open the lid, my gaze snaps back up to him. “It’s—”

“Don’t say it’s too much,” he interjects before I can finish.

My fingers slide over the silver bracelet studded with diamonds. I lift it up from the box, my hands trembling slightly, stunned by how shimmery and delicate and beautiful it is. And then I notice the charm attached to the clasp—it’s in the shape of a triangle.

“Do you like it?” Tate asks gently. “I thought you should have a triangle that’s more permanent than the one you draw on your wrist.”

“It’s incredible, Tate. I can’t believe you did this.” It’s nicer than anything I’ve ever owned in my entire life, and even though I don’t ask, I can’t help but wonder how much it cost him. I’m sure far too much.

He secures the bracelet around my left wrist, directly over top of the triangle I’ve traced in blue ballpoint pen on my skin. The diamonds sparkle and flicker even in the dim light of the living room, and it feels like more than I deserve.

“If you don’t like it, I can have them design something else,” Tate offers, still looking unsure, like he’s been worried about my response for days now, afraid I would hate it. Which means he probably had it designed before we got back together. He really had been thinking of me while we were apart.

“No,” I answer quickly. “It couldn’t be more perfect, Tate. I love it—thank you.” I touch it with my other hand, still in shock that he had something custom-made just for me. That he remembered the triangle on my wrist; that he remembered what it means to me.

His eyes slide back to mine, sending waves of heat through my entire body. I reach for him, running my fingers up his jawline, wanting him to know how much this means to me. “I’m serious,” I say so he understands. “It’s more than I deserve.”

“It’s hardly enough,” he says. “You deserve a lot more.”

I smile and tilt forward up onto my toes, pressing my lips against his. His kiss is slow at first, careful, and then I can feel the need in his lips, the heat burning between us.

“Did you mean what you said the other night?” he asks, his breath tickling the soft curve of my ear as his mouth slides up my neck.

My heart stutters and slams against my rib cage, not from fear or hesitation, but adrenaline—a fevered excitement that writhes inside my belly. I told him that I want him—all of him. Now more than ever, after everything we’ve been through together, I know I’m ready. I want to share this with him—something that will bind us and bring us closer. “Yes.”