I close out the register and watch him from the corner of my eye. Then I see him pull his phone from his pocket and press it to his ear.
A vibration buzzes from inside my purse. I dig out my cell to see a number I don’t recognize. I glance out at Tate and he gestures for me to answer. I hesitate, but finally hit the green button. “Hello?”
“You locked me out.” I try not to let the thrill of his voice wash through me.
“We’re closed,” I say into the phone.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, as if weighing his options, what he might say to convince me to let him in.
“And how did you get my number anyway?”
“I’ve had it for days.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. And PS, it’s more than a little creepy that you’re calling me when I haven’t even given you my number.”
“I wouldn’t have had to call if you’d unlocked the door,” he says with irritating logic, and I look out at him standing on the other side of the glass. He tilts his head, staring up at the night sky, and then looks back at me. The night suits him somehow, the light from a streetlamp washing over him, illuminating the planes of that impossibly symmetrical face. For the briefest second I feel it again—that sense of familiarity that has nothing to do with the past few evenings at the Bloom Room. Then he shifts and the feeling fades.
“Still not answering my question,” I counter, pointing to my phone. “How did you get my number?”
There goes the dimple. “Let’s just say I have...resources at my disposal.”
“What sort of resources?” I ask.
“People who figure things out for me.” Another non-answer. But if he has people, he must have more money than I first thought.
“Don’t you think that gives you an unfair advantage?” I ask.
“I think I need any advantage I can get.” His gaze holds me captive through the glass windows and I can’t seem to look away. “But now you have my phone number, too, so we’re even.”
“I didn’t want your number,” I tell him, glad that the darkness hides my telltale smile. I’m enjoying this too much.
“I think you did,” he says. “Otherwise you would have hung up by now.”
Several seconds pass and I can hear his breathing on the other end. It makes my stomach quiver and a warmth brush over my skin. “Is there a reason you stopped by tonight? I noticed you didn’t come bearing coffee this time.”
“You want coffee, it’s yours,” he says. “But this time you’re drinking it with me.”
“I—”
“It’s Friday night, Charlotte. Go out with me.”
There are countless reasons to say no. My mother’s past. My sister’s present. My future.
“One date,” he continues, his voice low, almost hypnotic. “Say yes. What do you have to lose?”
Everything, I think.
But my chest flutters. My mind swims with delirious thoughts of being close to him again, breathing in his rich, heady scent—and maybe feeling his touch against my skin just one more time. That’s all I need, just one more moment with him and then I can forget about him completely. I know I’m bargaining with myself. But I don’t care. I can feel myself giving in. “If I go out with you once, will you stop coming here?”
“I swear,” he answers, and I look to see that he’s pressed his hand against the glass of the door as if to seal the pact. My skin burns as if he’s touching me. I end the call, not trusting my voice to be steady.
I deliberately make him wait as I finish up in the shop, needing a moment to regain my composure. When I finally slip outside, he’s leaning against the car, and my heart starts racing all over again. He smiles, and for a second, his face is more open than I’ve seen it before.
“Well?” I say, hoping it’s too dark for him to see my flushed cheeks.
“You won’t regret this, Charlotte.”
*
We walk up Sunset Boulevard, on the fringes of Beverly Hills, where cafes dot the sidewalk, yellow and red umbrellas raised over round tables, white linens, and people sipping cocktails in the balmy evening air. It’s a different universe from where I live in Hollywood, even though it’s only ten minutes away.
Tate is quiet for several blocks and I like the silence. I’m afraid of what he might say if he speaks. Of what I might say in return.
“Are you hungry?” he asks finally, running a hand over his shaved head, only the short stubble indicating what color his hair might have once been: dark brown, I think.
“I guess,” I answer, scratching at my wrist, rubbing over the lopsided triangle inked there, a self-made tattoo of blue ballpoint pen.
“There’s a great place a few blocks up,” he says. “Lola’s.”
I laugh, but then I see he’s serious. One dinner at Lola’s probably costs more than I make in a week. “Will they even let us in?”