“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.