“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Because we’re...” I pause, searching for the right way to explain, then spot a couple walking toward us, hand in hand. The guy is wearing a sharp gray suit, talking on his cell phone, ignoring the girl on his arm wearing studded high heels. “Because we’re not them,” I point out, nodding only slightly as they pass, all elegance and sophistication.
Tate glances at me sidelong, amused. “Good point,” he says. “Then we’ll sneak in through the back. I know a guy in the kitchen.” One corner of his mouth is drawn up, and his eyes are wild with something mischievous. I shake my head.
But I don’t stop walking; I don’t tell him that I should probably go back to the flower shop, where my rusted powder-blue Volvo is waiting. That I should go home. I don’t want to admit it, but I like this feeling: the stirring in my stomach, the flood of warmth across my neck and cheeks whenever he looks at me. Just one date, I remind myself. One date won’t throw me off track. Just one date and he’ll leave me alone.
I almost believe myself.
The windows of Lola’s glow ahead of us, lit almost exclusively by candlelight. Carlos and I have strolled past slowly many times—Carlos hoping to spot any one of his many Hollywood crushes, me just along for the ride. But we’ve never been so lucky. It’s nearly impossible to see the faces of anyone inside anyway, because it’s so dark. Which I’m sure is the point.
As we get closer, Tate grabs my hand briefly and pulls me down into an alley. His palm is warm and strong, and I suck in a breath at the unexpected contact. He thumps his fist against a metal door once, then turns back to look at me. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes seem ignited.
The door lurches open, grinding against the concrete floor before it swings wide. A man in a white coat and blue plaid chef’s pants stands just inside, wiping his hands on a white dishrag.
“Tate,” he says, his voice sounding more than a little surprised. He glances into the kitchen, then back at us, his eyes washing over me quickly. I have the feeling that we shouldn’t be here—that this man isn’t going to let us in.
But then the man’s mouth lifts into a smile, he steps forward, and he and Tate embrace like old friends. “Hey, Ruben,” Tate says.
“Good to see you, man,” Ruben replies. “It’s been a while.”
“I know,” Tate agrees, patting the man on the shoulder as they release. “Do you have an open table?”
The man nods, still smiling, obviously pleased to see Tate. “For you? Always. Follow me.”
Tate takes my hand again, leading me through the kitchen, where all the prep cooks and servers stop to stare at us. Ruben pushes through a door out into the dining area and catches the attention of a hostess. Her gaze flashes over us, smoky eyes smudged with eye shadow; she’s wearing a slim black dress that dips down between her cleavage. For a moment she seems paralyzed in place, like she’s forgotten how to do her job, but then she smiles, revealing big, perfectly spaced movie-star teeth. “This way,” she says sweetly, eyes flitting over Tate and then to me once more like she’s gathering data, assessing my appearance—my clothes, my hair, my lack of makeup.
After a moment, she guides us along the back wall of the crowded restaurant. A quiet symphony of clinking glasses and silverware fills the air, the face of every patron aglow from the candles adorning each table. Even in the darkness of the room, I can tell this is the not the kind of place where a girl like me sits down across from a boy like Tate. Yet here we are, sliding into a booth in a relatively private corner of the restaurant.
Tate leans back, watching me like he expects me to speak first. As much as I hate to oblige him, I’m too curious about what we’re doing here. “How often do you come here?”
“Often enough,” he says easily.
I feel my eyebrows lift. “Apparently.”
“This place has been around since the thirties,” he says. “Humphrey Bogart used to drink here. It was just called the Club back then. He and the cast would come here after shooting Casablanca.”
“I’ve never seen Casablanca,” I tell him.
“What?” Tate sits forward.
“I know, it’s terrible. I just...don’t have that much time to watch movies,” I reply, embarrassed.
“What do you do when you’re not working?” he asks me. When I hesitate, he presses on: “You don’t work at the shop every day, so what do you do on Thursdays after school?”
“You know my work schedule?”
“It’s not hard to figure out.”
“You realize that’s what stalkers do...track their victims’ schedules.”
“You think I’m a stalker?” His eyebrows lift, his expression a little hurt.
“Let’s just say I’m reserving judgment.”
“I didn’t mean to freak you out. I only know your schedule because I’ve been to your work a few times and noticed when you weren’t there.”