Flower

by Shea Olsen

  “Charlotte.” His eyes sweep over me and I glance away, refusing to let his gaze unravel me. “You’re all I think about. I feel like I’m going insane not being with you.”

  I clench my hands into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms, and our eyes lock.

  But the door to the lab swings open behind him and Rebecca steps inside. “Oh, hey—” she says, stopping abruptly before she walks right into Tate. “Sorry I’m late,” she adds, but only out of reflex, since her gaze is caught on Tate. I catch the moment of recognition in her eyes. She knows he’s Tate Collins and it’s stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “Can we get out of here?” Tate asks, still looking at me. “Just for a minute.”

  “I can’t. I have to work.”

  “Nah,” Rebecca jumps in, skirting around Tate like she’s afraid she might accidentally touch him, then drops her backpack on the floor before grabbing a lab coat from the hook. “We’re just staring at spore samples all night, nothing groundbreaking. I’ll cover for you, Charlotte.” She’s doing a good job of not looking directly at him. Like everyone else, she knows about my brief romance with the infamous Tate Collins, but she’s always been gracious enough not to bring it up. Now, she must sense the tension that writhes in the air between us.

  Tate’s eyes bore into mine and I shrug out of my white coat, draping it over a chair. I just want to get this over with. “I’ll only be gone a minute,” I say to Rebecca, but I don’t blink away from Tate’s gaze.

  “No hurry,” she says behind me.

  I follow Tate into the hall, then out to the shadowy parking lot. He grabs my hand as soon as we’re outside, pivoting me around so that my back is pressed up against the cinder block wall. “I can’t be without you,” he whispers.

  I steel myself to look up into his eyes. “You can’t be with me either. Not unless you’re honest with me,” I say, my tone hard and unforgiving. And then I think back to the lonely weeks without him, the ache so sharp it was a physical pain. “Tell me who you are so I can trust you. Tell me what happened to you to make you like this.”

  I step away from the wall so I’m no longer caged in by his arms. The parking lot is dark, except for the moons of light cast down by the overhead street lamps.

  “I’ve made mistakes in my past, I’ve hurt people. I can’t take that back. But I don’t want to make the same mistakes with you. I know you’re mad, I get it.” He follows me with his gaze but gives me my space. “I just thought if I planned every detail, if I controlled every move, I could make this work...”

  I burn with shame and anger. “I can’t believe I ever agreed to any of this in the first place. It wasn’t even a real relationship, it was just another game to you. I was a puppet you wanted to control. And when I stepped out of line—when I came to see you that night in your room in Colorado, you panicked. You couldn’t even let me have the one thing I wanted: you.”

  “I’m screwed up, I know.” He steps closer to me—the slowest motion—and I don’t flinch away when he reaches toward me, threading his fingers through my hair. “But I need you, Charlotte. I feel like myself when I’m with you. I’ve even started writing music again—I almost have enough for a new album. I’d forgotten why I used to love it. But being with you... It’s changed me. I need you in my life. To remind me that Casablanca doesn’t end right. To eat lime sherbet with you and know you’re the only other person who loves it as much as I do. To listen to you talk about your future, to see the world through your eyes. I can be different, just give me a chance to prove it to you.”

  My skin tingles beneath his touch and my eyes flutter closed, then open again. “A relationship shouldn’t feel like this, Tate. You can’t keep forcing me away whenever I get too close.”

  “I know.”

  “And why now? Why come find me now, after weeks of nothing?”

  “Because I couldn’t stay away. I’ve been a wreck since Christmas. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to see you. I had to try.” He pauses, just for a moment, searching my face. “Please, Charlotte.”

  “You need to let me in,” I tell him, as if I’m actually considering this. “You need to tell me what you’re thinking instead of just disappearing.”

  “I promise.” He drops his hand from my face. “God, Charlotte, I’m so sorry.”

  I suck in a deep breath, then let it out. “If we’re going to do this, then no more control, no more trying to protect me. You have to let me decide what I want. You have to trust me.”

  “I do trust you,” he says, his eyes piercing mine, reminding me of how effortlessly they can split me open and leave me bare. “You mean everything to me. And I need you.”

  I need him, too. My heart rate kicks up.

  Finally, I lean forward, brushing my lips across his. At once, his hands are in my hair pulling me forward, his lips covering mine. He kisses me like he doesn’t want to lose me, he kisses me like he won’t ever let go again.

  “I don’t care about everything else. I just want the real you,” I say, drawing back just a whisper. Only an hour earlier I thought I’d never see him again, but now, with his lips so close to mine, another thought surfaces, one I can’t ignore. One that’s been gaining weight long before our trip to Colorado. “I want to be with you. And I want—” The words catch momentarily in my throat, a confession, and then they find form. “I want all of you.”

  He pulls away, cradling my face in his palms. In his eyes I see that he understands what I mean. That I’m done waiting for him.

  “I want you, too,” he says, his voice heady and deep.

  There is a fever in his touch now, an urgency in his hands along my neck. I feel a flurry of excitement in my belly, followed again by dread. I can’t tell Grandma we’re back together. Not after what happened.

  “Tate...can we...can we keep this just between us, for now? I know it’s not easy, with the paparazzi and all, but...”

  “Whatever you want,” he says. And I wrap my arms around him, smelling the clean scent of him, my lips lingering against his neck. It would be so easy to kiss him again, let him push me back against the wall and feel his hands across my body. I could forget about going back to the lab and lose all sense of time. But instead, I rest my hands against his shoulders and tell him that I need to go.

  I start to walk through the door but he pulls me back, kissing me once, long and deep, before releasing me. “I’m not going to lose you again,” he says.

  “I hope not,” I tell him, and I slip back inside.

  SEVENTEEN

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON, CARLOS AND I are sitting on the bleachers in the gym, watching the dress rehearsal for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The opening night of the play is in two weeks and Carlos is writing an article about it for the Banner. I’m assigned to take photos.

  Normally, I’d be excited to experiment with the school camera equipment, outdated as it is, but it’s Sunday—and it’s Valentine’s Day—and I’d rather be anywhere but here. Actually, I’d rather be one place in particular: with Tate. I haven’t seen him since he came into the lab and surprised me three nights ago, but I have a feeling I’ll hear from him today.

  “The set design is still a little shoddy,” Carlos says in a hush.

  “I don’t think they’re finished yet. And you can’t print that in your article.”

  “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 T
ate 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.

  “Do you like it?” Tate asks gently. “I thought you should have a triangle that’s more permanent than the one you draw on your wrist.”

  “It’s incredible, Tate. I can’t believe you did this.” It’s nicer than anything I’ve ever owned in my entire life, and even though I don’t ask, I can’t help but wonder how much it cost him. I’m sure far too much.

  He secures the bracelet around my left wrist, directly over top of the triangle I’ve traced in blue ballpoint pen on my skin. The diamonds sparkle and flicker even in the dim light of the living room, and it feels like more than I deserve.

  “If you don’t like it, I can have them design something else,” Tate offers, still looking unsure, like he’s been worried about my response for days now, afraid I would hate it. Which means he probably had it designed before we got back together. He really had been thinking of me while we were apart.

  “No,” I answer quickly. “It couldn’t be more perfect, Tate. I love it—thank you.” I touch it with my other hand, still in shock that he had something custom-made just for me. That he remembered the triangle on my wrist; that he remembered what it means to me.

  His eyes slide back to mine, sending waves of heat through my entire body. I reach for him, running my fingers up his jawline, wanting him to know how much this means to me. “I’m serious,” I say so he understands. “It’s more than I deserve.”

  “It’s hardly enough,” he says. “You deserve a lot more.”

  I smile and tilt forward up onto my toes, pressing my lips against his. His kiss is slow at first, careful, and then I can feel the need in his lips, the heat burning between us.

  “Did you mean what you said the other night?” he asks, his breath tickling the soft curve of my ear as his mouth slides up my neck.

  My heart stutters and slams against my rib cage, not from fear or hesitation, but adrenaline—a fevered excitement that writhes inside my belly. I told him that I want him—all of him. Now more than ever, after everything we’ve been through together, I know I’m ready. I want to share this with him—something that will bind us and bring us closer. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Desire sings through my veins. “I’m sure.”

  Movement in the glass catches my eye—our reflection. I watch Tate nod slowly. “I’m still going to go slow with you.”

  I try to respond but then Tate’s lips find my throat, kissing me gently and traveling up to my jaw, and all I can do is gasp. I have always craved his touch, but this time it feels different—this time it feels like our bodies throb to the same heartbeat.

  His fingers are slow and deliberate as they slide around my hip, then push up the hem of my shirt. Thankfully, I’d guessed I would see him today, and had made sure to wear the pale blue push-up bra I bought at Barney’s. The one that makes me feel like someone else—someone desirable and confident and sexy. My skin trembles. I close my eyes as he pulls the shirt upward, over my stomach and then to my neck. I raise my arms, and he lifts the plain green shirt over my head, dropping it to the floor. I’m standing in only my bra. My breathing deepens. His gaze meets mine in the glass, a question in his eyes. I nod wordlessly. His fingers find the button of my shorts, unfastening it deftly, then sliding down the zipper. They fall around my ankles and I carefully step out of them. Tate kicks them away with his bare foot.

  I know I should feel exposed—vulnerable—but instead I feel ignited, set on fire by his breath grazing my shoulder. Every fiber of my fl
esh, every nerve ending is alight.

  “Charlotte,” he whispers into my ear—a broken murmur—and a tingle races down my neck. Then his palms are around my torso again, sliding up my ribs like a ladder.

  I can hardly breathe, barely think. My heartbeat roars in my ears and I’m shaking. Is he going to push me away? Stop us here? My mouth goes dry and I close my eyes, scared of what he might say next.

  “Let’s go to my room,” he finally says, and the relief almost swallows me whole.

  * * *

  Tate’s room is huge, the light dimmed by the shades. His bed is neatly made with dark gray pillows and a charcoal bedspread.

  He slides his fingers up my cheekbones, carefully, drawing my focus back to him, then pulls me into a kiss. I feel myself sink into his arms, surrendering to his touch, never wanting his hands to be anywhere else except on me.

  He pulls away from me only long enough to tear his shirt over his head, revealing his hard, muscled chest, and I barely stop my mouth from dropping open. His hands move around my waist again and I glance up at him, taking in the sharp, angular lines of his impossibly handsome face. His dark eyes glitter as he reaches for me, pushing my hair away from my face. “You’re so beautiful, Charlotte,” he whispers just before he kisses me.

  He turns and sets me delicately onto the edge of the bed, and I bite the corner of my mouth. I reach up and touch his stomach, his abs firm. He tilts my chin upward, brushing his thumb over my lips, and lowers himself to kiss me. I close my eyes, his lips soft and slow at first, like they are remembering what I feel like, what I taste like. “I’ve missed you,” he says again, and I feel the words all through my body. His other hand glides over my bare leg, my thigh, stopping at the line of my underwear. Then his hands travel up to my waist, over the dark fabric, his thumbs pressing into my hip bones. I kiss him deeper, harder, willing him to not let go.

  I slide down onto the bed, melting, liquefying, and his body follows. He positions himself above me, kissing my throat. And every second feels like I’m about to come undone, my thoughts scattering, my body trembling beneath his touch.