Chapter 12

CHAPTER12

SCARLETT

The restaurant I’m meeting Tate at is actually in our neighborhood, not too far from where I live with my family, though I’ve never been here. It’s small and quiet, and since we’re meeting at two thirty in the afternoon, it’s not very busy either. Which I suppose is good. Maybe no one will notice us.

I’m still not sure how I feel about the possibility that people could react to catching us together again.

The hype over me and Tate possibly being a couple still hasn’t died down. Thanks to the song I first heard on TikTok, it’s only ramped up. Speculation abounds; all the gossip sites and morning shows and social media are still asking if we’re an actual couple. Wondering if Tate ruined everything between us because of the song. The lyrics.

He makes it sound like I ruined his life, which is kind of dramatic. Rachel can’t get over him writing a song about me. I heard about it from her first, she was so excited. Calling me first thing in the morning screaming, “Did you hear this?”

I don’t understand him. Not too sure what he wants from me. I blew him off when he came to our place, but after he left, I felt . . . bad. I treated him terribly. Worse, I acted like a bratty little baby.

Now here he is, wanting to meet with me again, and I vow I’m not going to act like a child. I’m eighteen. Graduated from high school and ready to go on a trip around Europe in the fall. Taking a gap year because my parents both think it’s a good idea I get out and experience a few things before I go on to college. They’re not against higher education, even though neither of them got a degree or even took a few classes.

They want me to live my life, especially my dad. He always talks about dreams and adventures and doing something wild and crazy. Now that I went and kissed Tate Ramsey, he finally believes I have it in me to embark on something bigger than myself. Maybe he’s right.

But then again, there’s that tiny part of me that doesn’t believe it could happen . . .

I enter the restaurant accompanied by a soft gust of wind that catches my hair, making it fly into my face. I push the wayward strands out of my eyes, glancing around the tiny café to see Tate sitting in the farthest, darkest corner of the building. The moment our gazes catch, his lips curl into a faint smile and he rises to his feet.

I forgot how tall he is. How impressively broad his shoulders are. He’s dressed in black again—a T-shirt that clings to his muscular arms and flat abs in a most appealing way that has me checking him out, my gaze lingering.

Then I realize I’m just standing there like a salivating idiot, so I push myself out of my fugue state and make my way toward his table, taking deep breaths to calm my suddenly racing heartbeat. There are way too many chaotic thoughts running through my mind. My pulse is erratic in my wrist, my neck—God, even my head is pounding incessantly.

This reaction can’t be from his presence or because of the way he’s smiling at me—which, I can’t lie, is quite nice. Almost reassuring. No, this must be nerves. And curiosity.

What more could he want from me? Daddy already paid him. Maybe he wants to apologize for the song. The response hasn’t been negative, but the conversation it’s drummed up about our relationship is completely over the top. Everyone has us already split.

And we were never actually together.

“Glad you made it,” Tate says when I’m close enough that I can hear him, his rich, deep voice wrapping all around me. That charming smile still plastered on his face. He pulls me in for a brief hug, his arms coming around me quickly, his lips pressed against my cheek, and I’m speechless.

I don’t recall ever feeling this way with Ian. Did I react like this when he touched me? Did he ever dare try to kiss me on the cheek?

No. Never.

Tate goes to the chair opposite his and pulls it out for me like a gentleman. “Have a seat.”

I settle in without a word, keeping my head bent, trying to hide the fact that I’m blushing. That I have no idea what to say.

How do I even start this conversation? His mere presence has stolen all my words, leaving me speechless, which rarely happens. I may be quiet, but I usually know how to make conversation.

“Are you hungry?” he asks once he’s seated across from me, his fingers curled around the edge of the menu. “I hear their sandwiches are good.”

“I already ate.” I finally lift my head to meet his gaze and find he’s already watching me. Those deep-blue eyes are the kind a person could get lost in if they don’t watch it, and I shake my head a little, leaning back.

Needing the distance.

“Have dessert then.” He flips the menu to the back and gazes at the items listed. “Looks like they have a decent selection. And I’m guessing you have a sweet tooth.”

“What do you mean?” Is he implying I’m . . . fat? I’ve always wished I were thinner, but it’s just not in my genes. My mother is on the curvier side, and I inherited that from her, so I have more boobs and butt than my friends.

I wouldn’t call myself overweight, but I am definitely self-conscious around my skinny friends . . .

“At your party, you had eighteen birthday cakes.” His gaze finds mine once more, his expression grave. “I assumed you like sweets. Maybe I was wrong.”

“No, I love cake.” I clamp my lips together, hating how my answer sounded. “My parents were the ones who made sure there were eighteen cakes. Kind of a play on Marie Antoinette, you know? Let them eat cake?”

“She was murdered for saying that,” Tate murmurs.

“She was a victim of the French royalty and society.” I will defend Marie Antoinette until I die. That poor woman was forced to marry the future king of France, who had no interest in her whatsoever. She was the one responsible for bringing the next heir into the world, and it was supposedly her fault she had a girl first.

I know we’re nothing like European royalty, but sometimes the pressures the Lancaster family faces feel as if we’re descended from a royal family. The expectations, the gossip . . . it all can be a lot. My father is the youngest of his brothers and the most open minded, thank God. He pulls away from his brothers more often than not, and I think my mother is a big influence on him as well.

I’m grateful for it. I know I wouldn’t want my uncle Reggie as my father. He’s the worst one.

“You’re right. She died a tragic death due to lies that were told about her by her own son,” Tate says.

I’m impressed by his knowledge. “He was forced to say those things. They had a child in jail, and they were abusing him.”

“True.” Tate rests his elbow on the table and props his chin on his fist, studying me, his gaze searching as it roams over my face. “I didn’t think we’d ever get into a debate over Marie Antoinette.”

This is a silly conversation, he’s most likely saying. “I don’t necessarily think we’re debating. Pretty sure we’re on the same side.”

“I agree.” He points at an item on the menu. “They have chocolate éclairs. Maybe we should have one in honor of Marie and France.”

“I don’t know . . .” A chocolate éclair sounds delicious, but they’re so messy.

“We could split one,” he suggests.

“Okay,” I agree right as the server appears tableside.

Tate orders the chocolate éclair for us, and I ask for a vanilla latte.

“I’ll take one too,” Tate says, handing the menus to the server, who’s blatantly staring at him.

I’m sure she recognizes him. He’s become so popular again thanks to the coverage from my party; I’d bet he gets recognized just walking down the street. He must be having a surreal moment from all the attention he’s received, but I still don’t understand why he wanted to see me.

“Why exactly did you want to meet with me yet again?” I ask once the server is gone.

“Can’t a guy who kissed you Saturday night ask you out on a date?” His smile is teasing. Downright flirtatious.

“This is a date?” My eyes feel like they want to bug out of my head.

He drops his arms to his sides and leans back in his chair, sprawling his long legs out. He’s wearing black trousers and a black shirt, while I’m wearing a pink dress. Not like the monstrosity I wore at my party, but I do sense a theme here. “That’s what I thought it was. Maybe you misunderstood me?”

I think I’m in shock, and I can’t help but feel a little . . . excited. Tate keeps coming around, so he must be interested, right?

I remember what my mom told me about playing it cool, and I decide to go with her advice. “I figured it was just two . . . friends getting together to chat. You asked for another chance, right?”

“Right.” He blows out a breath and scooches closer, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “I wanted to talk to you about the . . . song.”

“The song.” I nod.

“You’ve heard it?” His eyebrows shoot up, and he has this expectant look on his face.

“Yes. Only parts of it, though.” It’s currently being played on repeat all over social media. People—mostly women around my age—have created countless video montages featuring photos of the two of us together set to that song. Specifically the lyrics that go like this:

Scarlet red

Like your lips

Like your heart

Like the scars

That you left

On my skin

In sin

Head you gave

So depraved

Yeah, I bet he wishes I gave him head.

That line is mortifying, but I can’t focus on it at the moment.

“And what did you think of it?” he asks.

“It was . . . good,” I admit reluctantly. I can’t lie to him. The song is good. He sounds great. “I thought I saw it mentioned somewhere that you recorded it in your bathroom?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles, ducking his head for a moment. Like he’s almost embarrassed. “I was . . . all fired up after seeing you, and I decided to write out all of my frustrations. I have a notebook full of bits and pieces. Lyrics. Lines.”

“I like to journal sometimes too,” I tell him, deciding to share a small piece of myself. No one really knows that I sometimes put down my thoughts in my journal. “It’s a good way to get things out. Memories for later.”

“I know what you mean.” Tate nods, his expression thoughtful. “Anyway, I realized I was actually putting together a song, and next thing I know, I’m in my bathroom, because it has pretty decent acoustics, and I’m recording the song on my phone.”

“All by yourself?”

He nods.

“Without a studio?”

“Can you believe it?” He seems pretty proud of himself. “I was exhausted by the time I was done, and I thought, ‘What could it hurt, uploading the song on a few sites?’ So I uploaded them and then passed out. Next thing I know, I’m waking up to my manager losing his mind and the song already going viral.”

He passed out. Was he drunk? Did he do drugs? I’m not about to ask him. It’s none of my business, and I don’t want to offend him.

“That’s a great story,” I say softly.

“You know what makes it even better?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “It’s the truth. That’s exactly how it played out.”

“And the song. It’s really about me?” My name is even said in the song, though I wondered if I was overthinking it. Maybe he’s just talking about the color. The song is called “Red,” after all.

“It’s really about you,” he confirms, his voice just as soft. He has a really nice one, by the way. His voice. It’s smooth and deep, sometimes with a hint of a rasp that’s . . . sexy.

Oh God. I need to watch it before I fall under his spell.

“You’re not mad about the song, are you?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything.

“No.” I shake my head, mulling over my feelings. When I first heard it, I was vaguely offended, but the more I listened to it, the more I realized it’s flattering, that he would write a song about me.

That he’s thinking about me.

That I make him feel something, even if it’s anger or frustration.

It’s better than making someone feel nothing at all.

“I’m glad. I might’ve been frustrated when I wrote it, but I think it’s more of a lusty tale than anything,” he says, his relief apparent.

“Lusty?” There’s a word I don’t hear used much.

“Yeah. Like I’m longing for her and lusting after her and I wish she felt the same way.” He’s referring to me as her, and it’s a little confusing.

“Is that how you really feel?” The question leaves me before I can think too much about it, and the moment the words are out there, I wish I could take them back.

I can’t, though. He’s watching me with a certain look in his eyes. Like he’s surprised by my question but he likes that I asked it.

He likes it a lot.

Which is stupid. I know it’s stupid. Ian has shown me who he really is. And so has Tate. He’s the one who keeps reaching out like he might actually be interested.

Forget my chances with Ian. Maybe I have a chance with . . . Tate?

Rachel will absolutely die if something ever happens between us.

The server chooses that moment to appear with a tray laden with our drinks and the éclair on one plate. She sets our lattes in front of us, then settles the éclair in between us, smiling at Tate.

“Do you need anything else?”

“This is perfect, thanks.” He flashes that superstar smile at her, and I swear I witness her knees buckle.

I stare at her, wishing she’d talk a little more so I wouldn’t have to be alone with him.

He’s going to say no to my question. I just know it. And yet again, I’ll be left humiliated.

Rejected.

“I just want you to know that I loved your music when I was younger. Five Car Pileup was my favorite band,” the server gushes, coming to my rescue and stalling my eventual humiliation.

Tate nods, ever so humble. “Thank you.”

“And I saw the videos of your performance at that heiress’s party Saturday night. You were wonderful.”

I sit up straight at being referred to as that heiress. Again, I’m relegated to nothing. She doesn’t even realize I’m literally that heiress.

“I appreciate that. It felt good to perform again,” Tate says.

“I hope you continue to sing. You were fun to watch. Sexy.” She blushes. Smiles. Clutches the tray in front of her like a shield.

I clear my throat, now annoyed at her lingering, and she finally takes the hint, sending a quick look my way.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” the server says.

“What was your name?” Tate asks.

If he asks for her number right in front of me, I’m going to lose it.

The server beams. “Callie.”

“Well, Callie, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods, glances over at me for like half a second, and then runs away, heading to the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Tate says to me once the server is gone. “That usually doesn’t happen anymore.”

“I guess your circumstances have changed.” I take a sip of my latte, relieved to find it’s not too hot.

“She didn’t realize you were the heiress.” Tate smiles, picking up his fork.

“No one knows who I am. Though they know my family. Everyone has heard of the Lancasters.”

“You’re practically American royalty. Like the Vanderbilts or the Rockefellers.”

“It’s a lot,” I say with a sigh.

He smiles. “Right. It’s tough coming from such a prominent, wealthy family.”

“It’s truly not easy.” I take another sip from my latte, hating how I always feel like I must defend myself. “Money doesn’t buy happiness, you know.”

“Oh, trust me. I know. But it definitely makes life easier.” He takes his fork and lodges it right in the middle of the chocolate-frosted éclair, cutting it in half. The cream oozes out of both ends, making an absolute mess, and I’m shocked when he forks up his half and shoves the entire thing in his mouth.

I watch as he chews, wishing I could throw all those years of proper breeding and polite manners out the window and shove my half of the éclair in my mouth like Tate. My mother would have a fit if she ever saw me do something like that.

“How’s the éclair?” I ask after he swallows.

“Delicious.” He points his fork at my half. “You should eat that.”

I stare at the semidestroyed half left behind and reach for my fork, tugging a flaky piece of pastry across the plate. “I can’t remember the last time I had one of these.”

“You only live once,” he suggests, and I glance up at him, realizing that he’s right.

We do only live once. We need to make the most of what we’ve got and enjoy it while it’s all happening. Instead of wasting away and wondering if someone is going to notice. Going to care. Going to make a move.

Why should I give someone else the power when I can take care of myself?

I stab my fork into the pastry and bring it to my lips, the scent of the thick layer of chocolate making me hum with approval just before I place it carefully in my mouth.

Oh my God. The pastry is flaky, buttery goodness, and the chocolate is a thick, sweet frosting that combines perfectly with the airy cream.

Pulling the plate closer to me, I start shoveling it in, just like Tate did, though with a tad more decorum. I don’t stop until the éclair is gone, and I fleetingly wonder if he’d judge me for picking up the plate and licking it.

Realizing he’d most definitely judge me, I decide against it.

“I guess you liked it,” he says once I’m finished and taking a sip of my latte.

“It was delicious.”

He smiles, and it hits me that he never answered my question. If he actually feels that way for me, like how he described in his song. Maybe he avoided the question because the truth is he doesn’t feel that way. Not even close. It’s all a show he’s putting on for the public to get more likes. To make more money. To get further ahead in his revitalized career.

I guess I don’t blame him. He destroyed himself, and now he’s the proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes. People rarely get a second chance, so he needs to take advantage of it.

I completely understand.

I do.

“Look.” His gaze meets mine when I first speak, and I offer him a weak smile. “I know you said you wanted another chance to speak to me, and I appreciate it. I do. Maybe you wanted to apologize for what happened. Or for the song. But you don’t have to. I’m not mad. Hopefully we can look back at this small moment in time someday with fondness and remember how silly it all was. And you’ll have your career back, bigger and brighter than ever.”

I push my chair back and rise to my feet, slinging my bag over my shoulder, noting how his gaze stays locked on me the entire time. “I wish you nothing but success, Tate,” I murmur to him.

Just as I turn and practically run out of the restaurant.