“Charlotte.” The word is throaty and deep.
He touches my hand with his, pulling it away. “If I kiss you now, I won’t be able to stop. I won’t stop until...” He squeezes my hand, then rests it back in my lap. I see his eyes trail over my legs hidden beneath the dress, then back up to my neck and then my lips.
I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me. “Not yet,” he says.
I exhale and every ignited cell of my body turns to ash, extinguished by his words. My heart thuds down into my stomach.
I never imagined I could feel this way, that I would be the one pressing him for more, wanting a kiss that he won’t give me. But he has boundaries I don’t understand. Rules that make no sense to me.
My brain switches into practical mode, rescuing me from my drowning thoughts. I glance down at my dress. I can’t go inside like this.
“I need to change,” I say.
Tate looks at me, hesitates, then nods, understanding. He ushers me out the passenger door and into the backseat, where the bag that holds my old clothes is waiting alongside the other shopping bags from today. He slips in the door after me so he won’t be seen by any unsuspecting neighbors, but then color rises in his cheeks as if he realizes suddenly how close we are back here.
“I won’t look,” he says, turning his head away as if to punctuate his words.
I realize he expects me to change right here, in the car. The windows are tinted nearly black, so there’s no risk of anyone outside seeing me, but still, Tate is right beside me, a breath away.
But I don’t really have another option.
I unstrap the black heels and slip my feet out one at a time. The soles of my feet had begun to ache, and I rub my heels briefly. I attempt to unzip the back of my dress, but in this awkward position I can’t reach the clasp or the top of the zipper. “Could you...” I wave a hand to indicate what I mean, the words somehow too intimate to say aloud.
He turns and his eyes seem darker, steady and unblinking.
I shift on the seat so my back is to him, and for a moment he doesn’t touch me. But I can hear his breathing, hear the hesitation in every exhale.
Then his hands are against the base of my neck, lingering a moment too long, before finally finding the clasp and then sliding the zipper all the way down to my waist. I feel his breath faintly against my exposed back and I press the front of the dress to my chest, then peer around to look at him.
His face looks almost pained, like it’s taking every ounce of effort for him to not reach out and touch me again—to keep from tearing the dress the rest of the way off of me. Then, noticing my gaze on him, he quickly turns to face the other window, giving me a sliver of privacy.
I arch my back, sliding the dress down my legs to my ankles. It sits like a mound of red silk on the carpeted floor of the car, still shimmering even in the dimness of the backseat. The air is mild, but I feel a tingle across my bare skin. I fold the dress quickly, then place it in the salon bag, pulling out my old clothes and dressing as fast as I can. The entire time, Tate never twitches, never turns to catch a glimpse of my partially naked body.
When I’m done, I feel like Cinderella after midnight, returned once again to normal in my everyday Charlotte clothes.
“Okay,” I say softly, so he knows I’m done.
He starts to open his door, then stops, turning back to face me. For a moment he still looks uncomfortable, like the idea of me half naked sitting right beside him is still playing through his mind. “I want to see you again,” he says, searching my face. “This week.”
I feel my eyebrows pinch together. I want to see him again, too—I don’t even want to say good-bye. But a reminder of all the things I have to do this week slams through me at once: an upcoming calc test, an AP English paper that’s due. “It’s a crazy week at school. Plus I told Holly I’d pick up an extra shift.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t work at the flower shop anymore,” he says.
I tilt my head, thinking maybe I misheard him. “What—why?”
“So I can see you more. You already have so much going on.”
“I need the job and the money,” I say, wiping away a wispy tendril of hair when it drifts into my face.
“I could buy the flower shop from your boss, then hire someone else to work there for you.”
“Tate,” I say, frowning, shocked to hear him talking like this. Is it his control thing again? “I like working there. And just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean I’m looking for a free ride.”
I’m half expecting an argument, but instead a smile creeps onto his lips, punctuated by his dimple. “I like it when you do that.”
“What?” I ask, still feeling a little defensive.