by Shea Olsen
“Are you okay?” he asks softly when I suck in a deep breath.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His hand inches upward, gliding smooth and effortlessly across my body. A slow trickle of desire begins to build.
“You’re so soft.” He places another kiss against my throat and I tilt my head slightly, widening the space for him to kiss me again. But instead he whispers, “Has any boy ever touched you like this?” His voice is low and calm, deeper than I’ve ever heard him speak before, and I feel my legs go weak.
“No,” I say, my voice thin.
Tate doesn’t slow the rhythmic way his hands seem to know every curve of my flesh, moving like liquid, spilling over my skin like heat.
I reach up to feel the hardness of his chest. My fingers travel down to his abs flexing above me, and then I find the edge of his jeans, sagged low on his hips. I circle the metal button with my fingertip, then start to slide it free, but Tate stops me, touching my hand gently.
A smile reaches his slightly parted lips. “Leave those on for now.”
I lift my head, starting to protest, but his mouth presses over mine, kissing away the words. His hand skims down my body.
“Is this okay?” Tate’s voice vibrates against my flesh and my body pulses around him. I start to murmur yes but my body takes over, arching toward him. Blood rushes into my ears, my toes curl, and my palms press against the mattress, gripping the sheets—my lungs gasping for air as I cry out.
I collapse beneath him and his mouth lifts. Slowly, I release my grip on the bed, and Tate’s fingers glide back up my thigh. His other hand lingers for a moment against my trembling skin, holding me still so that his lips can kiss me one last time, soft and sweet.
He smiles and rolls over on his back, pulling me with him. I rest my head on his shoulder.
“You all right?” he whispers.
“Mmhmm,” I reply, unable to say much more, not yet.
“Good. I’m going to do things different this time,” he tells me. “I want to make sure you’re ready.”
I lift my head to study him. “I am ready,” I assure him.
I curl my body around his, and he reaches up a hand to touch my face. With his lips near my ear, he hums a melody against my skin.
“Is that a new song?” I ask.
“It’s something I’ve been working on.”
“I like it,” I say in an exhale, still feeling heady and like I’m made of air.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you that I’m going to record a new album.” His breath tickles my hair. “I’ve already written most of the songs, thanks to you. You’ve inspired me.”
I wonder how I—Charlotte Reed, invisible bookworm and colossal nerd—could have inspired him. It’s so absurd I almost laugh.
“My manager used to tell me that I needed a muse to write meaningful songs. I didn’t really know what that meant, until I met you,” he continues, his thumb rubbing my bottom lip. “When I’m with you, the lyrics just appear in my head. I’ve never experienced it before. The songs are just pouring out of me and I can’t wait for you to hear them.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, but my heart is starting to thump erratically, the light-as-air feeling quickly fading away. I try not to think about the articles I read about Tate, how things were before he met me, when he was Tate Collins the pop idol. The girls, the drugs, all the wild things he’s alluded to. I let out a breath. “But what will all of this mean for us?”
He slides himself over top of me so we’re face-to-face, so he can look me in the eye. “It’s going to be a lot of studio time,” he admits. “I have to get this album just right. It’s a new sound, a new direction for me, and I need it to connect with my fans in a big way.” His gaze locks with mine, intense and searching. “But I promise I’ll make time to see you as often as I can, Charlotte. You’re everything to me. I hope you know that.”
I nod, trying to ignore the sense of dread that’s lingering deep within me.
“This is going to work between us,” he stresses just before he kisses me. “But I have to leave for New York first thing Tuesday.”
My lips curve into an uneasy smile and I nod, but my heart is crushed at the idea of him across the country from me when I’ve just gotten him back. “Don’t they have studios here in LA?”
“I’m meeting with a record producer who I think is going to be the perfect fit for my album. He understands what I’m trying to do—something raw and authentic. Less produced. He’s usually booked, but my manager got me a meeting, so I can’t pass up this chance to work with him.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know. If it all comes together, we could start recording right away,” he explains.
“Here?”
“Maybe here. Or maybe in New York. I’m not sure yet.” He runs a finger down my temple, his gaze watchful and steady. I can’t look away. “But I’ll call you. Text you. And I promise to be back soon.”
He lowers his head to kiss me and I smile. “I’m sad that you’re leaving, but I’m also so excited for you.”
“It’s only temporary. I can’t stand being away from you for too long,” he whispers against my lips. “Everything is finally making sense. You. Me. My career. You’re exactly what I need, Charlotte.”
I kiss him back, winding my arms around his neck. Emotion swirls inside me—happiness, excitement, longing. Just when I finally have Tate, when I nearly have all of him, I feel like he’s slipping away. But I push the fear away and smile against his lips, enjoying this one moment, right here, right now.
EIGHTEEN
I HAVE BECOME ONE OF those girls. Obsessively checking my phone. Peeking at it secretly at my desk. Carrying it in my hand between classes so I can feel the vibration if Tate happens to send me a text. I hate that I’m doing it, but I can’t seem to stop. When Mia catches me, I lie and say I’m just anxious to hear from Stanford. Admissions letters will go out any day now, but still, all I can think about is Tate.
He’s been in New York for eight days and it feels like a month. So when an e-mail pops up during sixth period, I reach for my phone so quickly that I knock it onto the floor.
The clatter draws too much attention to me, and I have to shove the phone back in my bag and wait until class ends to read it. When the bell rings and I finally get to open the message, it takes me a moment to process what it means. It’s an electronic airline ticket to New York City...for this weekend.
I stop dead in the middle of the hallway, all sounds muffled around me.
He bought me a ticket to New York City! He wants me to come see him.
* * *
I decide that there’s no other way. I have to come clean. I can’t fly across the country without telling someone. And I need his help. After sending a cryptic text to Carlos, we meet up at the Lone Bean. I guilt-buy him an iced coffee, compliment a shirt he’s had forever, and that’s when he tells me to spill.
“Something’s going on, Charlotte,” he says. “I know you.”
Finally, after dragging it out, I confess to Carlos everything about Tate: how he apologized at the lab, how he promised things would be different, how we’ve been dating secretly. And finally, about the ticket to New York.
Carlos actually looks numb, his coffee frozen in his hand, halfway raised to his mouth. “You’ve been seeing him this whole time?”
“I should have told you, I know, I’m so sorry. But things just got complicated before when everyone found out about us.”
“I’m your best friend.”
I press my hands over my eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, a million times I’m sorry. But I’m being honest now. And I really need your help.”
He looks down at me, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek. I’ve lied to him twice now about Tate—fir
st when I didn’t tell him I was dating Tate Collins, and now that I’ve been seeing him again—and I can see the disappointment in his gaze.
And then I ask him to lie for me. “I told my grandma that you and I are going to a Model UN summit in New York.”
“We’re not in Model UN club.”
“She thinks they were short two people for the trip, so we signed up.”
“That sounds so made up.”
I know it does. “But my grandma doesn’t know that.”
“I don’t want to lie to your grandma for you, Charlotte.”
I can barely meet Carlos’s eyes. “She’s not going to call you or anything to check, but if she does, just say that you’re with me and we’re really excited to represent Norway or Iceland or something at the summit.”
“Those are the countries you want to represent?”
“Pick whichever country you want,” I say, laughing.
Carlos’s mouth twists. “I’d much rather be Switzerland and stay out of this whole thing.”
“Please,” I beg. “Just help me do this one thing and I’ll owe you majorly.”
Carlos sips his iced coffee. “I don’t think you should go. You’ve never been to New York before and—”
“I know you don’t like him,” I say. “But that’s just because you don’t know him. He was a jerk in Colorado, yes, but since then he’s been amazing. He’s really making an effort to change. He texts me every day, tells me how much he misses me, and the fact that he wants me in New York with him is huge. It’s just for the weekend, you probably won’t even have to do anything. But just in case my grandma calls, I need you to be my alibi.”
He grips my shoulders with both hands and stares down at me. “All right, I’ll cover for you. But you have to promise me you’ll text me so I know you’re safe and he hasn’t whisked you off to Monaco and made you his bride.”
“I will.” And I lean across the table to wrap my arms around his tall frame. “You’re the best.”
“And promise me you’ll come back with your V-card,” he adds unexpectedly.
I almost choke on my coffee, covering my mouth with my hand and clearing my throat. “Since when do you care about my V-card?” I ask, my voice low.
“Since you seem to be taking a lot of risks for this guy, and I want you to be careful. I don’t want you to...lose yourself.”
I smile and shake my head. He’s right, but I won’t lose myself. I feel like Tate found me and I’ve never been less lost. I know exactly where I’m supposed to be. “I can’t promise that. But I love you,” I say, sipping my coffee. “I’ll text you when I land.”
He looks like he’s about to caution me one more time, but then changes his mind. “Love you, too.”
* * *
The day is clear and free of smog as the jet rises above LAX, and all of LA seems to glisten.
I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I don’t even know who I am anymore—this girl who skips school, calls her boss to get out of work, and flies across the country to spend the weekend with a boy who makes her feel reckless and wild and capable of almost anything. The old me never would have been this bold.
But now, sitting in a first-class seat, staring out the tiny oval-shaped window as the sun breaks against the horizon, I’m not afraid anymore. For the first time, I feel like anything is possible.
NINETEEN
NEW YORK CITY IS A glittery mass of lights under the dark sky and a nervous excitement buzzes inside me as the plane touches down.
Hank is standing at the baggage carousel waiting, and he grins when he spots me and carries my suitcase out to a black Escalade. The city feels alive as we make our way through Manhattan, skyscrapers towering overhead, people moving up the sidewalks as a light rain collects on the front windshield. I can’t believe I’m really here.
We finally slow to a stop in front of a towering hotel and a uniformed man opens the door for me, holding an umbrella. A bellhop retrieves my suitcase from the back of the SUV and wheels it under the awning out of the rain.
“Your key, milady,” Hank says when he meets me at the curb, handing me a plastic key card. Then he turns to the man who’s holding the umbrella over my head. “She’s in the penthouse.”
The streets are glistening in the rain. A reflective sheen that sparkles beneath the line of car headlights.
“Tate will be back at nine and you have dinner reservations at nine-thirty,” Hank explains to me.
“Okay.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Charlotte,” he adds. “He missed you. So did I.”
“Thanks, Hank,” I say, touched, and he walks back to the driver’s side door.
The man with the umbrella gestures for me to follow him and we step through the glass doors. I slow to a stop, taking in the arched gold ceiling and the crystal chandeliers. People sit on low-backed sofas and carry cocktails from the lobby bar. It’s the most elegant room I’ve ever seen.
“Miss,” the man says, holding the elevator doors open for me.
I catch up to him, stepping inside the mirrored elevator car, and he waves his key card over the panel, then presses the PH button. The elevator begins to glide upward and I hold on to the brass railing, tilting my head up like I could watch each floor pass as we climb higher.
“Your room,” he says when the elevator finally stops, waving to the single door across a short hallway. I hold my own key card—the one Hank gave me—over the square panel and the light flicks to green, unlocking the door.
I step through the doorway into a suite that puts the lobby to shame. Chandeliers are suspended elegantly over the living room and dining area. White couches face an already-lit fireplace. Airy curtains hang beside massive, floor-to-ceiling glass doors that lead out to a huge balcony.
“Do you need anything else?” the man asks, setting my suitcase just inside the room. I shake my head and he retreats back into the hall, the doors closing behind him.
I stand for a moment, staring, then I catapult myself onto the king-sized bed, sinking into the sky-blue pillows and fanning my arms wide.
I shriek and then cover my mouth, laughing.
I might never want to leave.
And then I see something to my left, hanging on a hook over a door. It’s a dress: a long, sexy black dress. I stand and nearly trip over myself, I’m so excited as I cross the room to read the note pinned to the hanger: For you.
I press the note to my lips, grinning.
I am Alice, and this is wonderland.
* * *
The girl in the full-length bathroom mirror is a stranger. Watching her I let out a deep breath. The fabric of the dress, so smooth against my skin, clings to the curves of my body. I run my fingers along my hips, feeling the delicate black silk.
I feel beautiful.
It’s already nine-fifteen when I walk out to the balcony overlooking New York. Car horns bellow up from below and there is a steady thrumming, like the city has a pulse, a heartbeat that never stops.
When the chill creeps into my bones, I move back inside, walking around the suite, eventually collapsing back onto the bed. Where is he? Hank said he should be here by now. By ten o’clock I feel my eyelids grow heavy but I don’t remember drifting into sleep until there is the warmth of someone beside me.
His breath is hot against my neck, and it rouses me from a half dream. Then a hand flattens over my hip bone, sliding down to my thigh. My eyes flutter open.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he whispers beside my ear. “We ran long at the studio.” I can feel his lips lingering against the back of my neck. “Are you hungry?”
I nod and turn to face him.
“We missed our reservation,” he adds, watching me now, his eyes burning into mine. I want to kiss him, touch him, fold myself up in his arm
s. So I do. I plant my lips on his and he kisses me back, our mouths intertwined and my heartbeat rising swiftly. He touches my hair and gently tugs it back to look in my eyes. “Let’s eat first,” he says. And the first implies there will be an after, and my heart thuds more rapidly at the idea of his hands on me again. “There’s an all-night pizza place only a block away.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
He takes my hands and lifts me from the bed, giving me a lingering once-over. “You, in that dress, are almost too much.”
I inch up on my toes to kiss him. “You bought it,” I say. “So you only have yourself to blame.”
Inside the elevator, Tate slides his hand around my waist as we descend down the floors. I’m about to speak, to ask if he always stays in this hotel when he comes to New York, when his grip suddenly tightens and he presses me into the corner of the elevator. He kisses me again, his tongue soft against my lips, teasing the inside of my mouth, and I sink into his arms. When his kiss moves down to my throat, I say, “Maybe we should skip dinner.”
He shakes his head. “You need to eat.” And then the elevator doors slide open onto the lobby.
Outside, the city feels just as awake and alive as I imagine it is during the day. Crowds of people move up the sidewalks and I love the anonymity, the feeling of being lost and free in a city where no one seems to recognize Tate. Where we are just two people passing through the drizzling rain.
I am completely overdressed for the modest pizza shop, but no one bats an eye. We order two slices and sit at a small red-and-white-checkered table by the front window.
Tate runs his hand over my leg beneath the table. “You wore the bracelet,” he comments, nodding down to where his Valentine’s Day gift glimmers on my wrist.
“I love it, I just don’t get a chance to wear it that often,” I say. “If my grandma saw it...” But my voice trails off. I don’t want to think about her right now, about the lies I told to be here.
“I’m glad you wore it tonight,” he says, smoothing over my thoughts. “It looks incredible on you. You look incredible.”
