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.
The breath stalls in my lungs. He waits for me to speak.
“Ask me again,” I say after a few seconds have passed. I bring my gaze to his, and draw in a sharp breath at the look on his face.
“Ask you what?” His eyes cut through me, making it hard to think clearly.
“Ask me out again.”
A glimmer of a smile reaches his lips. “Will you go out with me, Charlotte?”
“Yes.” The word slips out easily now.
He reaches across my waist, grabbing my seat belt and buckling it into place. His fingers graze my arms and blood roars in my ears. I ignore it, staring straight ahead.
“I still want to know why you never told me the truth about who you are,” I say. “So don’t think I’m letting you off the hook yet. I need an explanation.”
“You’ll get one,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting as he revs the engine.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My house.”
He pops the shifter into gear and releases the clutch. The car bolts away from the curb, zipping up Sunset and heading north. He drives aggressively, confidently, and even though I should be scared, I find myself smiling as we climb the Hollywood Hills. Then the car turns suddenly into a driveway and slows. I look ahead to see a gate blocking our way, but Tate hits a button on the dash of the car and the gate automatically swings open.
The driveway twists down a slope, and his house comes into view just beyond a tangle of broad trees. I lean forward, stifling a gasp. Stone and concrete and glass windows rise up three floors, and the roof swoops upward like it might touch the thin wisps of clouds in the darkness overhead.
Tate pulls the car around the circle drive in a swift loop, and stops beside two massive metal front doors. I glance over at him but he’s already stepping out of the car and coming around to my side. He opens my door and takes my hand to help me out. The warmth of his touch sends a flood of nerves straight through me. It was only a few days ago when his fingers last threaded through mine, but for some reason it feels like a lifetime ago.