Flower(62)

“What happened?”

He shakes his head. “A week after the Seattle show, my manager told me the police found her. She jumped from a bridge...” He doesn’t finish, but I understand what he means. “She left a note. Said she thought we were in love; that we were supposed to be together.”

“She killed herself?” I shiver at the words, the idea that this girl could give up her entire life because of a boy, because of love...

“I ended the tour early after that. I stopped performing completely. I walked away from everything, all the parties, the late nights. I couldn’t do it anymore. I realized that fame is a responsibility and I took it for granted. If one night could ruin a girl’s life—because of me—I didn’t want to risk hurting anyone else.”

He turns away from the railing, away from me, his entire body a rigid length of muscle, rain sliding over his shoulders.

“Is that why you backed away? That first night at your house, when I told you I’d never kissed anyone?” I move closer to him, touching his arm for the first time. His shoulders flex but he doesn’t pull away. “And again in Colorado? That’s why you thought you needed control?”

“I didn’t think I deserved you. You were perfect—you are perfect. I didn’t want to destroy you, too. Take away everything you’ve worked for.”

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “I’m stronger than that, Tate.”

“Before I met you,” he says, his voice low, “I thought I had fucked up my entire life, that there was no going back. But with you...with you I keep thinking maybe there’s still a chance.”

“For what?”

Slowly, he turns to face me, his dark eyes on mine. “To have someone in my life that I don’t destroy.”

I shake my head, rain falling between us. “What happened to Ella was not your fault,” I say, my lips trembling from the cold. “You couldn’t have known what she was going to do. You need to forgive yourself for that, otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your life afraid it’ll happen again.” I slide my hands around him so my palms are pressed against his bare back, his heart beating beside my ear. His skin is warm, much warmer than I expected with the cold rain cascading over both of us. “You need to let go of what happened.” I feel his chest draw in a breath of air. “You need to trust that you’re not going to hurt anyone.”

He touches my chin and tilts it up, staring down at me, a storm inside his eyes. He kisses me, slow and fluid, and it feels like all the words he wants to say but can’t. “Thank you,” he whispers against my lips.

A moment passes, the rain and the city filling the silence. And then I say, “Let’s go inside.”

He nods, and winds his fingers through mine.

He closes the sliding glass doors behind us and we walk back into the bedroom, dripping water from our feet and fingertips, leaving a trail behind us.

My dress is now wet from the rain, so I unzip the back and let it slip down my legs to the floor. Tate watches me from the other side of the bed. I crawl beneath the sheets and Tate climbs in after, tucking his arms around me. My body is damp and chilled, but Tate’s hands roam across my skin, down my spine, then up again, warming me with his touch. I think for a moment that his fingers might inch to other places, reignite the heat inside me to the point of breaking again—finally take us all the way there—but then he whispers against my brow, “Get some sleep.”

I peek one last time at the windows overlooking the city, now streaked with rain, before I close my eyes. I want it to be like this forever.





TWENTY

THE MORNING SUN MAKES ELONGATED shapes against the white bedsheet. I wake, blinking, and stare at my outstretched arm. The triangle shape on my wrist has faded. I haven’t been tracing it as often. I’ve been thinking of other things.

Tate is still beside me, lying on top of the comforter while I’m tangled in the sheets. I think he’s asleep, but when I turn onto my side to face him, I see his eyes are open, staring out the massive windows.

“Good morning,” I say, and my voice sounds slight and sweet.

“Morning.” He reaches out for me, pulling me to him, and I slide my hand over his stomach. “You’re gorgeous when you sleep,” he says. The tension of last night has lifted, but he still seems somber.

“Did you sleep at all?” I ask.

“A little.”

I breathe him in and his fingertips trace lines down my arm. “Do you have to work today?” I ask.

“No—I’m all yours.”

I smile and press my lips to his bare chest.

“What would you like to do?” Tate asks, brushing his fingers through my hair. “See the city?”

“I would...” I respond hesitantly. “But this is nice, too.”

His gaze slants deviously and I shift closer, crawling from his chest to kiss him on the lips. His fingertips drift along my rib cage and our kiss turns heated fast, his mouth more insistent, and he slides on top of me. The weight of him is enough to make my breath come fast and uneven. He kisses my throat and then my earlobe, and I shudder as his lips press against mine, sinking deeper, the heat swelling between us.

My body arches into his, my knees drawing upward—looping around him—and my toes curl against his legs. His heart thumps against my chest as he lies fully on top of me, and I know he aches for me, too, his body tired of waiting.