Chapter 17

CHAPTER17

TATE

I’m standing in the middle of every teenage girl’s dream bedroom, glancing around at all the shit that’s everywhere, covering every available surface. Scarlett Lancaster is a collector of pretty things, and she likes to show them off by putting them on display in her room.

Guess I can’t blame her. If I came from the Lancaster wealth, I’d have a bunch of useless shit in my room too. She doesn’t have to clean it or dust it. I’m sure they have a housekeeper who lives in this monstrosity of a penthouse apartment. They might have an entire fleet of servants who live in their own separate quarters, ready to assist at their owners’ every whim.

“You can sit if you want.” Scarlett emerges from her closet wearing a pair of denim shorts and a strappy little white top that reveals a lot of skin, her arms above her head as she pulls her hair into a high ponytail. “That chair is really comfortable.”

She’s pointing at an overstuffed light-pink chair and ottoman that are right next to the window.

I make my way over to it, reaching out to touch the chair arm, my fingers sinking into the velvety fabric. How much did this chair cost?

Damn. I thought I was living the high life when I was at my most successful. This family is a whole different breed.

“You should probably take your shoes off if you’re going to use the ottoman, though.” She points at it. “You might get it dirty.”

Without a word I toe off my shoes and settle in, resting my feet on the ottoman as I sink into the comfortable chair. “This is nice.”

“I told you.” She retreats back into her closet, disappearing completely. I caught a glimpse of the interior of that closet when she first walked in there, and I was impressed.

It’s huge. With all sorts of shelves and racks and an island in the middle of it.

“I want to see inside your closet,” I announce.

She appears in the closet doorway, a panicked expression on her face. “No way.”

“Why not? Whatcha hiding in there?”

“I’m not hiding anything.” She yanks the door shut behind her and stands in front of it, her hands braced against the wood. “It’s a mess.”

“No it’s not.”

“It kind of is.” She doesn’t move from her spot, and I don’t move from the chair because I think it’ll take some concentrated effort to get my ass out of it—it’s that comfortable.

“That can’t be all. Come on, Scar. What exactly are you hiding?”

She sighs, her shoulders falling. “I have a lot of stuff, okay? And it’s sort of embarrassing to show people who don’t really know me.”

“A lot of stuff, huh?” I raise my brows. I’m guessing that’s an understatement.

“Yeah, and it keeps coming. Look at this.” She turns and goes back into the closet. I hear her rustling around, and within seconds she’s reappeared with a giant wicker basket full of packages. “And this is only from the day after that photo of us first appeared. There’s a huge stack of boxes in my dad’s office and even more boxes waiting for us in the building’s mail room.”

Scarlett brings the basket over to my chair, setting it on the floor with a huff, like it weighs a lot, which I’m guessing it does.

“What is all this stuff?” I lean over the chair and start rummaging through, recognizing a few of the brands on the sender labels.

Prada. Chanel. A couple of cosmetic companies.

“Gifts mostly. They want me to wear their stuff and talk about it on my socials. I’ve been doing a lot of ‘get ready with me’–themed posts lately, and that’s when I put my makeup on and do my hair. I’m getting so much makeup they want me to feature, it’s kind of crazy.” She laughs, the light sound smacking me right in the chest. Wouldn’t mind hearing that again. “And they’re giving it all to me for free! I think I might do a giveaway or something. I could never use all of this. Plus if I held a contest, I could probably gain more followers.”

“You don’t need to do a giveaway to get more followers. You have a lot already,” I point out.

“I’d do it mostly just to get rid of some of this,” she admits. “I can afford all of this, yet they send it to me for free because they want me to share it with my audience, which I’ll totally do. But I definitely don’t need any of it. I’d rather give it to someone else.”

This girl has a heart, which I didn’t think was possible considering how snippy she’s been with me. I wrote her off as a spoiled rich girl when I first met her, and while that can’t be denied—even she admits she has a lot of shit—there’s kindness inside of her.

And that’s refreshing.

“I need to see this closet.” I haul myself out of the cushy pink chair and make my way toward the closet, Scarlett right on my heels.

“No, oh my God, please don’t go in there!” she’s practically shrieking as she wraps her hands around my arm and tries to stop me.

I’m too strong and too fast. I slip out of her grip easily, striding right through the open door and coming to a stop as I take it all in. “Holy shit.”

There are clothes literally everywhere. An entire wall consists of white shelves filled with shoes. Another wall is nothing but designer bags. There’s even a freaking short hallway that leads to another section of the closet.

“I know.” She sounds miserable, and I look to my right to see she’s standing next to me, her expression pained. “It’s too much.”

I can only imagine how expensive everything in this closet is. Or maybe I can’t imagine—I don’t know. There’s probably millions of dollars in shoes and bags alone. “I mean, if you’ve got it . . .”

“Some of it is my mom’s. Her clothes are the absolute best, and her vintage designer bags are so gorgeous and well made compared to what they sell now. They look like they came straight off the runway, they’re in such good condition.”

I stop at the island in the center of the closet. There are jewelry cases everywhere. Glass dishes full of rings. An earring holder, a necklace holder. The entire top surface is covered in a variety of jewelry, and it’s all glittery, the majority of it pink. I’m guessing none of it is costume. Well, the designer stuff probably is, but it’s some of the most expensive costume jewelry that’s ever been made.

“I don’t let anyone in here,” Scarlett admits as I continue wandering around, tilting my head back as I try to take it all in. “This is my private sanctuary. I barely let Rachel in here, which infuriates her.”

“Do you come in here sometimes and sit with your designer bags just to keep them company?” I shove my hands in my pockets, mentally counting all the Chanel bags sitting on one particular shelf. The shelf above it is nothing but Dior. The shelf below the Chanel is full of a mixture of Louis Vuitton and Fendi. “And do you have something against Gucci?”

“Sometimes I sit with my bags. I’ll hold them like a baby. Pet them and tell them they’re pretty.” I glance over at her, catching the cheeky smile on her face. “There aren’t enough days in the year for me to use all of those bags. My collection is kind of excessive.”

“Kind of?”

“You should see my mom’s closet. It’s even bigger.”

I don’t know how that’s possible.

She adds, “And I don’t have anything against Gucci, but my father does.”

“What’s he got against Gucci?”

“He was supposed to sign with them back in the nineties and be one of the faces of Gucci. But then Tom Ford took over as a designer, and my father and Tom, they clashed. My father walked away from the deal and banned Gucci from his life ever since.”

“I love Gucci,” I admit.

“Better not tell my father. He’ll do his best to convince you it’s a bad idea to wear their clothes.” She’s smiling.

I’m smiling.

It’s . . . nice. Spending time with her in her house. Her bedroom. Maybe she’s more easygoing with me because she’s in her home and she’s comfortable.

And I like that.

Instead of continuously wringing her hands and worrying about me being in her closet, Scarlett gives me a mini closet tour, explaining some of the items and where they came from. Mostly it’s gifts from her parents, though the stores will send her stuff as a thank-you for her mom’s purchases.

“Especially when I was younger. Mom would buy a jumbo-sized Chanel bag, and they’d send me a small one in the same color. My mom is a huge supporter of Chanel. I told her if social media was a thing back when she was my age, she probably would’ve been sponsored by them.”

I stop in front of what looks like the dress section of her closet. “Where’s the party dress?”

She frowns. “What party dress?”

“From your birthday.” I send her a look, my memory filled with images of Scarlett in that dress. Holding her close despite all the layers of pink tulle.

A memorable dress for a memorable night.

“Oh, it’s at a specialty cleaner. They’ll spot clean it, preserve it, and put it in a protective bag for safekeeping.” Her cheeks turn the faintest pink. “That dress is too much to wear more than once, you know?”

“It was pretty iconic,” I agree.

“You really think so?” She sounds surprised.

“Definitely. A total showstopper.”

She smiles. “You sound like your manager right now. Simon.”

“Hey, at least I don’t sound like Roger. He’d say something like ‘Seeing you in that dress made me come in my jeans, you looked so hot.’”

The moment the words leave me, I realize my mistake. I probably shouldn’t have said that to her. The deepening pink on her cheeks tells me she’s embarrassed. Despite her looking pretty fucking hot in that dress, I’m not sure if that was her intention.

“Roger is a rather . . . unique character,” she finally says, clearing her throat.

“That’s one way to describe him.” I contemplate telling her what I really thought of her in that dress and decide to go for it. “You did look pretty hot, though. In that dress.”

Her entire body goes still, her big eyes wide as she stares at me. “You really thought so?”

I take a step closer to her, catching her irresistible scent. Damn, she smells good. “Definitely.”

“It was so poufy, though.”

“You carried it off.”

“I needed room everywhere I walked. The crowd would part when they saw me approach.”

“Yet I was still able to get close enough to kiss you.” I smile. “Well, you were the one who kissed me.”

She smiles as well. More like a faint curling of her lips, but I’m counting it. “I still can’t believe I did that.”

“I can’t believe you did it either. What came over you?” I lean against the island, my elbow nudging aside a wide bracelet, and she shifts closer, reaching over to push the bracelet out of my way so I don’t knock it on the floor.

Now she’s even closer, her chest brushing against mine, and I swear to God, she’s not wearing a bra under that strappy little shirt she has on. It’s thin, made of cotton or linen, I don’t even know, and it’s faintly see-through. If I squint, I think I can see the outline of her nipples.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she admits, her voice soft. “You seemed almost . . . desperate.”

“I was.” There’s no point in trying to hide it. I wasn’t about to turn into a colossal fuckup in front of a photographer and allow him to capture the moment for all time.

“And I felt sorry for you,” she adds.

Ouch. Truth hurts. And that sucks.

“Plus, I was mad. At . . . Ian.” She takes a step back, as if she’s suddenly shying away from me.

The mention of Ian the idiot douses any flames that were flickering between us. “Can I be real with you for a sec?”

“Sure.”

“From what you’ve told me about him, I’m pretty sure Ian is a fucking idiot.”

A myriad of emotions shines in her eyes. Surprise. A hint of irritation. A douse of pleasure. As if it pleases her that I called him an idiot. “That’s probably a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“Nope. I stand by my original assessment.” I clamp my lips shut, stifling the emotion bubbling up in me. “The guy is an asshole.”

“Why do you say that?” She tilts her head to the side, like she genuinely wants to know my reasoning.

“If I was that guy and you were crushing on me, I would’ve been honest with you from the start whether I liked you or not. And if I felt the same way you did, I would’ve done everything in my power to show you how I feel about you a long time ago. If you were mine, I’d never let you out of my sight.”

She’s quiet, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and my gaze drops there, skimming over all that golden skin on display. The hint of cleavage. One of the straps slips off her shoulder, falling halfway down her upper arm, and without thought I reach out and very carefully, very slowly push it back into place, my fingertips lingering on her supple skin.

Goose bumps appear where I touched her, her breath stuttering. I don’t remove my fingers from her shoulder. Instead, I let them drift down, tracing her skin, noting how soft it is.

So fucking soft.

“Scarlett! Are you in here? Darling, where are you?”

My hand drops from her arm, and we both turn to find her mother standing in her closet doorway, a knowing smile on her face.

“What are you two doing hiding away in the closet, hmm?” Gloria Lancaster arches a brow, her lips curved into a knowing smile. Her gaze flickers to mine, and she doesn’t appear upset at finding me in here with her only daughter.

If anything, she looks downright thrilled.

Scarlett brushes past me, her words coming fast. “I was just showing him my closet, Mom. That’s all. No big deal.”

The girl needs to learn how to be chill around her mother when it comes to us. Nothing happened in here, yet she sounds guilty as hell.

“I’m just surprised, is all. You never show anyone your closet, Scarlett.” Gloria studies me, and I see the curiosity in her gaze. I’m sure her mother is wondering what makes me so special compared to everyone else. For one, the beloved, idiotic Ian. “Aren’t you the lucky one, Tate?”

Yes.

I most definitely am.