“I think Puck’s tights are starting to tear in the crotch.”
“Yeah, you can’t print that either. And why are you staring at his crotch?” I raise a brow at him.
“The real question is, why aren’t you staring? You’ve gotta admit, Jake Cline slays it as Puck.”
“And here I thought you were still madly in love with Alan Gregory,” I tease.
“I am. I was thinking Jake might make an interesting rebound for you,” Carlos says, winking. I look guiltily away. He doesn’t know that Tate and I are back together. And I don’t plan on telling him. Not yet anyway. He saw how crushed I was after Christmas, and we spent weeks hating on Tate together. I can’t imagine how I’d explain taking him back.
“I’m not interested in a rebound,” I say.
“But have you really looked at those tights? I mean, come on.”
“Carlos!” I turn swiftly on the bench and slap his leg.
“What?” He shrugs innocently. “I’m only trying to help you find a distraction.”
I meet his eyes and we both start to laugh, holding our hands over our mouths to keep from interrupting the second act of the play.
I snap a couple photos from our seats, then move closer to the stage to get a better shot of the half-constructed set design. It’ll have to be good enough for the article.
“Your phone was vibrating in your bag,” Carlos says when I return to my chair. He’s scribbling notes on a pad and doesn’t look up when I pull out my phone and read the text from Tate: My house in fifteen?
I’m at school, I send back.
Another text pops up immediately. Twenty then? I smile, but flatten my lips so Carlos won’t see.
I’ll be there.
He texts me the code to his security gate and I lock my phone, gripping it in my palm.
“Hey,” I say to Carlos. “I have to go.”
“Where?” He glances up from his notepad.
“To—um, the lab, at UCLA. My professor needs me to fill in.”
“On a Sunday afternoon?”
“I know. Sucks. But I need to go.”
“But the rehearsal’s not over.”
“I got the photos I need. I promise they’ll do justice to your article,” I say, dropping the camera into my bag and hoisting it over my shoulder. “I’ll call you later.” I wave, already starting to back-step away.
“Okay, lame friend,” Carlos says, half teasing. But I sense he really isn’t happy I’m ditching him. Especially on Valentine’s Day, when we’re supposed to be single and miserable together.
I jog out to my car, swing my bag onto the passenger seat, then start the engine. My heart is already starting to race in anticipation.
At Tate’s driveway, I punch in the key code and smile to myself as the massive metal gate swings inward, allowing me to drive through. I’d asked him to let me into his life; I guess trusting me with his security code is a good place to start. I park and walk up to the towering front doors. I’m about to knock when I see that one of them is open a crack. I push against it. “Tate?” I call. But there’s no answer.
The house is dark, aside from the lights glowing dimly from the walls.
“Tate?” I call again, but still nothing.
I step farther into the house, down the steps into the lofty living room. I press my fingers against the glass overlooking the pool and the back lawn and the glimmer of LA far in the distance.
I don’t hear Tate move up behind me until his hands press against my waist, slipping around my hip bones. “Hi,” I say, starting to turn around to face him. But he holds me firmly in place, kissing the side of my neck, his lips sliding gently over my skin. The sensation ripples through me like electricity set free from its wires. It crackles and bursts and singes my fingertips where they linger on the cool surface of the glass.
Then one of his hands releases me and he turns me around, holding out a small blue box tied with white ribbon. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says simply.
I take it from him, holding the weight of it in my palm, realizing that this is the first time anyone has ever given me a gift for this particular holiday. “I didn’t get you anything,” I say, wishing I had thought to bring him something. Even though I have no idea what you buy someone who probably already has everything he needs.
“Yes you did,” he says, his voice tender. “You’re here—that’s all I need.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, then begin untying the ribbon from the box. When I open the lid, my gaze snaps back up to him. “It’s—”
“Don’t say it’s too much,” he interjects before I can finish.
My fingers slide over the silver bracelet studded with diamonds. I lift it up from the box, my hands trembling slightly, stunned by how shimmery and delicate and beautiful it is. And then I notice the charm attached to the clasp—it’s in the shape of a triangle.