Flower Page 6

  Carlos pulls out his American history homework and starts ranting about the test he had to take today, and how it was totally rigged because he doesn’t remember them going over any of the material. I’m grateful he’s changed the subject—distracting me from thoughts that keep cartwheeling back to Tate. But I’m also incapable of focusing on what he’s saying. When he eventually stands up to use the restroom, I glance out to the street, and there at the curb is the car.

  I lower my head and clench my jaw, allowing myself to stare at it for a moment. I know it’s his car—who else’s could it be? If he expects me to come talk to him, he’s in for a surprise. He can just sit there all day if he wants to.

  But then the driver’s side door swings open and Tate steps out, looking irritatingly smoking hot in dark sunglasses and gray jeans. I swallow, stunned.

  I realize I’ve never seen him in daylight before. He’s even more striking, every feature illuminated: every plane of his face defined, along with the broad arch of his shoulders beneath his white shirt. I can even see a sliver of skin, of hard abs where the hem of his shirt has risen above the line of his belt, before it falls back into place. I gulp.

  His gaze settles on me, eyes narrowed, and he strides toward me.

  I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to do this. Why can’t he leave me alone?

  I firm my expression in place, watching him with such intensity that I hope he’ll just turn around and go back to his car. But as he gets closer, my heart starts hammering in my chest. The divide between us shortens, until he’s standing at my table, right in front of me, and I flash a side-glance to the other people seated nearby. A few are watching him, but it might just be because he practically demands to be stared at, admired. Even if they don’t realize who he is yet, I know from Friday night that it’s just a matter of minutes until he’s recognized. It’s a miracle we made it through most of our meal at Lola’s undisturbed.

  “Charlotte,” he begins, his voice low.

  But I lift a hand. “No—don’t.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “You don’t need to explain anything. I already understand.”

  “I don’t think you do,” he answers, taking a step even closer. But I shift back in my seat, putting another inch of distance between us. His eyes slide over me, like he’s looking for something, then settle on my chin. “Did you get hurt on Friday?”

  “It’s just a bruise,” I reply coldly. The swollen skin is nothing compared to the lingering sense of betrayal, but I’m not giving him the benefit of knowing he has the power to hurt me. “I’m fine.”

  He exhales deeply, realizing I’m not going to make this easy on him. I just want him to leave.

  “Come for a ride with me,” he asks. “Give me a chance to explain.”

  “I’m busy right now,” I say, looking down at my textbook. My hands are clenched in my lap beneath the table, twisting together.

  “Are you...here on a date?” he asks. Tate had been watching us walk here; he watched Carlos hug me, then kiss my head. And now I can see the tension in his eyes.

  “Why would you care?” I ask. “It’s not like you cared enough to tell me who you really are.”

  His shoulders tense. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. But this isn’t the place to have this conversation. Can I pick you up when you’re done?” I sense the voices around us rising, the whispers becoming more certain. Yes, people, it’s true. The Tate Collins is standing in front of the Lone Bean, failing miserably at an apology.

  “I have work,” I say shortly. “Besides, I’m not going anywhere with you.” The anger feels swift and hot across my skin.

  He glances to his left, to a table occupied by three girls, all staring directly at him. “Just tell me, does that guy mean something to you?”

  I unclench my hands from under the table, sigh. “Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s Carlos.”

  He looks relieved. But I don’t want him to feel relieved...I want him to feel how I feel, betrayed and humiliated. I want him to know what a risk it was for me to go out with him in the first place, and then he lied to me, made me feel like I was just some stupid game. But all I manage to say, all that comes out, is, “I never want to see you again.”

  He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. His lips part like he’s searching for words that aren’t there.

  I steel myself against the alluring way he clenches his jaw, the framed outline of his body against the blue skyline behind him. There’s just something about him—something captivating, seductive even—but I don’t allow my thoughts to sink any deeper into examining what that something is. Because he’s a liar. He tricked me. And I don’t want anything to do with him.

  Then, without another word, he turns away from me and moves back toward the street. I can feel his absence in the air, the space where he once stood now hollow.

  Two of the girls at the next table rush to their feet and start after him. I hear them say his name. But he slips into his car without turning around to acknowledge them. They stand for a moment, disappointed, before they turn back.

  Asshole, I think as he drives off. But some small part of me can’t help but wonder what he would have said if I’d let him speak, if I had gone with him.

  “What did I miss?” Carlos asks when he returns moments later.

  “Not a thing,” I say, flipping open my French textbook and looking down to hide my face. Carlos is too good at seeing through my lies. “Let’s get some homework done before I have to head to work.”

  “Homework, it is.” He plops down next me, grabbing a pen from his backpack.

  Even as we study, I can feel the eyes of Tate’s impromptu fan club, curiously watching. But I don’t even look in their direction. I don’t think about Tate—at least I try not to. But it’s useless. I tell Carlos I’ll be right back and head to the bathroom.

  It’s empty when I enter. But when I step out from the stall, a girl is standing at a sink—water gushing into the bowl—but instead of washing her hands she’s just staring at herself in the mirror. At first I think she’s one of the girls that followed Tate, but then I realize I haven’t seen her before. Her eyes lift and she turns around to face me. She’s wearing a black sweatshirt and black jeans—very Goth, I think—and her hair is dark and severe, cut in a harsh line just below her chin. She’s pretty though, pale with a few freckles across her nose that make me wonder if she’s a natural redhead, her hair only dyed black for effect.

  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 uns
olicited 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.

  “Anytime.” Holly’s eyes widen, and she looks at me like she’s trying to gauge my reaction, like maybe I don’t realize who’s standing in the shop with us.

  “I was hoping I might be able to borrow Charlotte from you for the evening, if you don’t need her to work?”

  He probably thinks he’s so clever, forcing me to take the night off by buying up the whole store. As if it’s some grand romantic gesture. But it only makes my chest constrict tighter, the irritation swelling across my skin, making me want to scream. This is just another one of his games.

  “She’s all yours,” Holly says.

  “No,” I interject sharply, turning to face him. “You cannot borrow me. I am not a thing to be borrowed.”

  The intensity of his gaze drives through me as he turns to look at me straight on. “That’s not what I meant, Charlotte. I just need to explain. I need you to know that I didn’t lie to you.”

  “I don’t care...” But my voice trails into a whisper. I glance at Holly for a second, but she’s just staring, her jaw literally hanging open. “You need to leave.”

  A shadow passes over his face, his eyes intent on me. He’s probably not used to anyone telling him no, but he pushes his hands into his jean pockets and backs away. “Okay,” he finally says. “I’m sorry. I won’t try to see you again.” He studies me for another moment, then pivots around and pushes out into the fading light, the sun just barely lost over the city skyline.

  I force myself to move, walk to the front counter, where Holly still stands paralyzed, her expression frozen. “Did I miss something?” she asks. “Did Tate Collins just ask you out?”

  I shake my head. “It was more like a demand.”

  “And you told him no?” Now she sounds like Carlos.

  “He’s been coming here for over a week,” I say, aware that that’s not really an answer.

  “Wait. Mystery boy. He was the one who sent you the roses?” I watch the awareness dawn in her eyes.

  “The creepy stranger who stalked me and embarrassed me in class with a flower delivery? Yes, that’s him.”

  Her posture relaxes. “Okay, so what happened to make you despise him so much?”

  I avoid her eyes. “I went out with him Friday night, against my better judgment, but he lied to me. He didn’t tell me who he was. He let me make a fool out of myself.”

  “Wait, wait.” Holly holds up her hands; the stack of silver bangles studded with charms slides down her forearms. “Slow down. You went on a date with him and you didn’t know he was Tate Collins?”

  “I know, I know.” I grimace. “I just...didn’t recognize him.”

  “And let me get this clear. That’s why you won’t go out with him again, because he didn’t tell you up front who he was, even though most of America—scratch that, most of the world—would have recognized him right away?”

  “It sounds stupid when you say it like that.” I grab the broom from the closet, start sweeping up some of the leaves that are scattered over the floor. I feel suddenly awful. There’s a wrenching twist inside my gut.

  Holly clucks her tongue. “Charlotte. He’s probably so used to girls falling all over him, it was refreshing that you didn’t.”

  “Maybe,” I acknowledge, remembering when he stepped into the flower shop that first night. He had looked at me like he was waiting for something—probably for me to realize who he was. But I never did. And he kept coming back to see me; he kept finding reasons to walk through that door. Maybe Holly’s right. “But it doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “It’s over now.” His words replaying in my mind: I won’t try to see you again.

  “Do you like him?”

  I shift my jaw to the left, biting down on the truth, on how I really feel. “No. I mean, I don’t know.”

  Holly leans forward against the counter. “He obviously really likes you. He bought out the store just to spend an evening with you, for God’s sake. And I
know you have your rules about boys, but you’re a smart girl, Charlotte, and you’ve always been so responsible. Don’t be afraid to live a little.” The fine lines around her eyes pinch together as she smiles. “Just ask yourself... Did you tell him to go away because you’re not interested in him, or because you’re afraid you are interested in him?”

  A feeling begins to swell inside me, expanding swiftly, as if all it needed was Holly’s permission to take form. Not anger this time, much as I try to hold on to that. I can’t deny the way I feel when I’m around him, the sensation of petals blooming in the core of my stomach. The way his eyes track over me, like he really sees me. The way he listens when I speak, like he can’t wait to hear the next word from my lips. “Okay,” I admit. “Maybe I’m interested.”

  “It’s not too late,” she says, nodding to the windows. “His car is still outside.”

  I turn and see headlights at the curb, the silhouette of his sleek black car outlined against the street. I hesitate.

  “Go,” Holly urges me. “Let him explain himself, and then decide if you want to see him again.”

  A smile breaks across my lips, and I walk around the counter, giving her a hug before I turn and run for the door.

  “Call me if you need anything!” she shouts after me.

  The car is still idling at the curb, its engine purring. Without thinking, I dart into the street in front of it. The headlights cast over me, a wash of whitish blue, and I can just make out the outline of Tate’s body in the driver’s seat through the tinted windows. I pause for a moment, remembering Goth girl and her strange warning. I consider what I’m about to do, then decide to put it out of my thoughts. Maybe I’m crazy, but I want to hear what he has to say.

  I open the passenger door and swing into the seat. The car is low to the ground, and I glance around as I pull the door closed, not yet brave enough to look at him. The interior is black leather and pristinely clean: no fast-food wrappers or dirty sneakers, not even a water bottle out of place.