I spring up from the bed.
There’s no time to shower, so I shimmy out of my pajama shorts and tank top and dig through my narrow dresser for a clean bra and underwear, texting my excuses to Carlos in between pulling on each article of clothing. My bedroom window is open and the morning breeze is balmy. I dress in jean shorts—not the same pair from yesterday—and a pale pink shirt with a scoop neck that clings to the curves of my body. Every time I wear it Carlos whistles and says, “Damn, girl.”
On Saturday mornings, Grandma goes to the senior center for Zumba. So the only person I have to contend with is Mia.
I find her in the kitchen, washing Leo’s bottles, her sleeves rolled up and hair slipping out of a low bun.
“Where you going?” she asks, wiping her forearm across her forehead, water dripping down her temple.
“Out...to meet Carlos,” I say.
“You usually do homework on Saturdays,” she says absently, like she’s not really interested in the answer.
I reach the front door, gripping the knob. I would prefer to tell as few lies as possible—so the sooner I leave the better. “Yeah. That’s what we’re doing. Working on calculus stuff.” I wince—my voice sounds so false. But Mia doesn’t seem to notice.
“I thought you could watch Leo for me tonight. I’m supposed to meet Greg at the Palapa. They’re having live music.”
“Greg?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know, Greg. The guy I had to cancel on a few weeks back because your extracurriculars are way more important than helping out your sister and spending time with your nephew?” Her words are harsh but her voice just sounds tired. “So, can you watch Leo tonight?”
I stare down at my hand on the knob. I want to help her—I really do. “Sure,” I say. “If I’m back in time.” I turn the doorknob quickly. I need to get out of here before she asks any more questions. “But no guarantees.”
“Charlotte,” she calls, but I’m already shutting the door behind me. I jog down the stairs before Mia can say anything else.
Tate is waiting for me a block away, the Tesla purring in place, around the corner where he dropped me off last night. My heart is thumping from the sprint and I take in a deep breath before opening the door.
“I was beginning to think you were standing me up,” Tate says when I slide onto the passenger seat.
“You didn’t give me much warning. I was still in bed.”
His dimple flashes and his eyes flicker from some thought skating through his mind. I smile as he revs the engine and pulls away from the curb.
“I realized that I need to work harder to impress you,” Tate says as we cross over into the polished neighborhoods of Beverly Hills, where the hedges are ten feet tall and gates guard the mansions inside. It’s a funny thing about living in LA: A crappy house like ours is only a short drive from the biggest mansions in the world. A girl like me can meet a guy like Tate, like we exist in the same world. It’s hard to imagine, and yet here we are.
“Impress me?” I ask, facing him. He watches the road as we glide past silver Mercedes and white Bentleys and steel-gray Ferraris, all with windows rolled down to let in the warm Pacific air.
“Renting out the famous Lumiere Theater to watch Casablanca apparently does not impress Charlotte Reed.”
“Trust me, I was impressed.”
“It’s okay,” he says, one eyebrow lifting, like he’s not buying it. “I like a challenge.”
He makes a sudden turn, pulling to a stop in front of a small valet stand.
“You don’t need expensive things to be beautiful,” Tate continues, his gaze seeming to take in each feature of my face. “But I want you to have them anyway.”
“I don’t understand,” I say as he opens his door. “What are we doing?” But he’s already walking around to my door, extending a hand to help me out. I step onto the sidewalk and look up at an impressive black awning, the words Barneys New York in white letters.
“Tate?” I ask, craning my head upward. I’ve seen Barneys from the outside, of course, but I’ve never stopped, never actually gotten out of the car. As if I knew they wouldn’t even allow me to park my Volvo anywhere near here.
“Come on,” Tate says, suddenly beside me, tossing his keys to a valet. He slips his fingers into mine and pulls me forward, but I stop at the doors before going inside, my stomach starting to flutter with nerves.
“I don’t think—” I begin, unsure how to explain what I’m feeling.
“What’s wrong?”