Chapter 23

CHAPTER23

SCARLETT

I’m an idiot.

I thought Tate was into me, but maybe I read him all wrong. Or maybe he knew Roger was going to stop by, so he put on a little show just for his benefit, and it backfired. I’m supposed to be his fake girlfriend, but instead I’ve become his real distraction, and this whole plan is freaking stupid.

I want to go home.

Instead, I take a long, cool shower and mentally try to convince myself that I did nothing wrong. I’m not at fault here. Deep down, I know I’m not. I just got caught up in the moment. Caught up in ogling Tate’s body and giving in to my urges to tease him.

Flirt with him.

Oh, how it worked. He was in that pool and on me within minutes, and for a moment there, it all felt so incredibly real. The tension between us was thick. The heat. The hunger. His body pressed against mine, his eyes on my mouth, staring at me like he wanted to devour me whole.

And when he kissed me? I reacted without thinking, allowing him in, tangling my tongue with his. His hands on my body. My legs automatically wrapping around him, his hands on my butt . . .

It was amazing. It was hot.

Until Roger had to show up and ruin everything.

I absently rub my cheek, still trying to rid myself of the lingering sensation of Roger’s lips on my face when he gave me that brief kiss.

Gross.

After my shower I blow-dry my hair, standing in the bathroom in a pair of panties and nothing else, seriously contemplating my body and finding nothing but flaws. No guy has been interested in me before, not even the one who I basically threw myself at for the last two years of my life. Why would I think someone like Tate—who has been with numerous women in the past and could probably get anyone he wanted right now with a snap of his fingers—be interested in me? Whatever happened out at the pool was a one-off. A moment that will most likely never occur again.

He’s got work to do. An album to make. Songs to write. I need to stay out of his way and be there like a good little devoted girlfriend when he needs me. That’s it.

End of story.

Once my hair is dry, I slip on a pale-yellow strapless dress, liking how the color makes my lightly tanned skin glow. My phone buzzes with a notification, and I glance down at where I left it on the counter, realizing that I haven’t posted for a couple of days.

I decide to do a “get ready with me” video and keep it real.

When I crack open the blinds on the window, plenty of sunlight pours in, and I set up my phone, propping it against a lamp. This is good enough.

“Guys, I’m in sunny Southern California, and I feel a little in over my head.” I stare into the camera, hoping they can see the genuine fear and apprehension I’m currently experiencing. “I know none of you will feel sorry for me. ‘Oh, poor little rich girl getting to travel across the country and spend the next few weeks with her hot, famous boyfriend while he makes an album.’ I get it. I do. But guys.” I lean in closer, my goal always intimacy. “My hot boyfriend is extra hot out here, and I think I’m a total distraction.”

As I put on my makeup, I ramble about my presence being an issue when all I want is to support and even inspire him. I even talk about my life feeling like a movie, right down to the Southern California location and how none of this seems real, blah blah blah. It feels good to get my feelings and worries off my chest. Like I just called up Rachel and unloaded on her.

I watch a few minutes of my video once I’m finished filming and decide . . . screw it.

I’m posting it right now, before I chicken out. Despite management or whoever coming up with a recording schedule and topics for me to discuss on my social media, I’m doing my own thing. Most of those ideas seemed incredibly phony anyway, and that’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve been at this for a while, and I’m pretty sure I know what my followers want.

Me being as raw and real as possible.

With shaky fingers I hit post on a few different sites, then breathe out a shuddery sigh of relief once I’m done. Too late to take it back now.

The moment after I post, there’s a knock on my door, and I go to open it to find Tate standing there. Looking gorgeous as usual in a pair of khaki shorts and an untucked white button-down shirt that’s open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up. “Ready to go to dinner?”

“Is it already time?” I go to my bed to grab my bag from where I left it and then get my phone before I return to where he waits at the door. “I’m ready.”

“You look . . . nice.” He sounds as if he just forced himself to say that, and I want to wilt under his too-brief inspection.

His word choice isn’t great either. Nice? Okay.

“You do too.” I paste on a bright smile and sling my purse strap over my shoulder, ready to walk past him, but he stops me with a gentle brush of his fingers on my arm. I see the look on his face, and everything inside of me starts to tremble. “What’s wrong?”

“Just . . . don’t feel bad about what Roger said to me earlier.”

My fake smile slips back into place. “I don’t.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Scar. I know it bothers you. You’re not a distraction.” His fingers slip down my arm, featherlight and leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. “More like an inspiration.”

“Oh.” We stare at each other for a moment before I blurt, “I made another ‘get ready with me’ video.”

His brows draw together. “Oh yeah?”

I nod. “I forgot to follow the script, though. Think they’ll be pissed?”

“I’m not sure. Depends on what you said.” A slow smile curves his lips, the sight of it absolutely devastating. Will I ever get used to that smile of his? “Funny how you keep doing that at certain moments.”

“I couldn’t help it. And I kind of went on a tangent about this entire surreal experience of being here and how I feel like I’m living in a fantasy,” I explain. “A Netflix movie or series or whatever.”

“I need to see this.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and I stop him, resting my hand on top of his.

“Watch it later. When I’m not around.”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“You watching me rattle on about you being my fantasy boyfriend while I’m standing right here?” Nervous laughter escapes me. “Yes.”

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and offers his arm to me. “Shall we go to dinner?”

I curl my arm through his with a faint smile. “Let’s.”

* * *

The sun is starting to set by the time we make it to our destination. Southern California freeways are no joke, and the restaurant we had our reservation at was only seventeen miles away, yet it took us over an hour to get there, thanks to rush hour traffic.

But the location is absolutely beautiful, filled with equally beautiful people dressed casually to the unknowing eye, though I recognize almost everything they’ve got on.

Designer clothes everywhere. Both subtle and obvious labels letting people know that they’ve got major money. Diamonds on the women’s fingers sparkling in the dim light of the restaurant, their hair perfect, their faces giving me serious filter vibes—and they all start to look the same. As in they’ve been Facetuned to the max. Chanel and Hermès bags are everywhere I look, and the scent of expensive perfume mixed with men’s pricey cologne lingers in the air.

I can tell this is a place to see and be seen. The lighting is dim, and there’s an entire outside deck that faces the ocean, which is packed with people. There’s also a massive bar on the other side of the restaurant that appears crowded as well.

“Did you pick this restaurant out?” I ask Tate once our server has seated us and left to get water for the table.

“It was Roger’s suggestion,” Tate admits.

Makes sense. He wants us visible and creating content. I noticed a few people inconspicuously taking our photos before we entered the building. Paparazzi? Were they informed of our location? I imagine it’ll become a little more chaotic by the time we leave.

“Have you eaten here before?” I open the menu, surprised by the lack of options. This must be one of those restaurants with a renowned chef who only makes a certain number of dishes each night.

“No, I haven’t.” Tate scans the menu. “They don’t have much.”

“I’ll have the shrimp salad.” I shut my menu. “I’m surprised Roger didn’t tell me I needed to lose weight.”

“Why the hell would he say that?” Tate practically growls, his gaze lifting to mine.

I’m surprised by the hostility in his tone. “I could stand to lose a few pounds. I’m sure I’ll be judged, out here in the land of the beautiful plastic people.”

“You don’t need to lose weight.” His voice has a firm finality to it that tells me he’s not interested in arguing with me about that particular subject. “And you can’t let being here give you a complex. If you do, you might need therapy by the time we leave.”

He speaks as if he has experience.

“There was something about the way Roger looked at me, though,” I admit, hating that I’m going there. The last person I want to talk about tonight is Roger. “Like he didn’t approve of me.”

Exhaling loudly, Tate closes his menu and sets it on the table, studying me intently. “If you ask me, Roger approves far too much of you. I told him to quit with the vulgar comments when he’s in your presence.”

I’m shocked. “You did?”

He nods. “I’m tired of his big mouth. He says the worst shit, and I don’t want him making you uncomfortable.”

Aw. That’s the sweetest thing. “He is kind of . . . odd sometimes.”

“More like he’s a total prick, but if you want to be kind and call him odd, okay.” Tate smiles at the server when he appears at our table once more with two glasses of water, setting them on the table. “Can we get the crab cakes, please?” He shoots me a quick look. “You can eat crab cakes, right? You’re not allergic to shellfish or anything like that?”

“I have no allergies that I know of.” I smile at the server. “The crab cakes sound lovely.”

“I’ll get them started and come back in a few to get the rest of your order.” He pauses, glancing between us. “Unless the two of you would care for a drink from the bar?”

Tate hesitates, and I see a flicker in the depths of his gaze. Like he might be tempted. “Water is fine,” he bites out.

“I’m okay, thank you,” I tell the server, who nods at us both before taking off.

“Is it difficult still? Consciously choosing to not drink?” I ask Tate.

I think of my father, who drinks a lot. Who, as he calls it, “likes to party.” I know in his twenties he often drank to excess. But he seems to have it under control now.

Mostly.

“Lately? Hell yes,” Tate admits, his voice raw. Like it took a lot for him to admit that. “Guess the pressure is already getting to me.”

My heart hurts for him, and I’m a little baffled by my internal reaction. This is a man who I found arrogant and irritating when I first met him. As I get to know him, I’m starting to realize he’s got vulnerabilities—lots of them. And he has feelings too.

Emotions that I feel protective of. He is, after all, a human being, but I never thought of him being vulnerable and a little shaken, not when he puts on such a confident, sometimes even arrogant act for the world to see. I’ve seen the mask slip more and more lately, and I worry about him.

I want to protect him.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.

The relief on his face is evident. “Just making that offer is enough, Scar. Seriously.”

“This is a lot.” I wave a hand around the restaurant. “Being here. Being in Los Angeles, knowing the expectations the label has on you.”

“Want to know the truth?” When I nod, he continues, lowering his voice as he says, “I’m scared out of my mind I’m going to produce nothing but shit. And that they’re going to hate it and drop my album from their release schedule completely. Cancel the contract. Forget the deal ever even happened. I’ve done this sort of thing before, but always with other people involved. My bandmates. Other songwriters. They provided us with the songs and the production and the musicians. We just showed up and recorded them like they wanted us to. I look back on that and realize how fucking easy we had it.”

“Still sounds like a lot,” I admit.

“Oh, it was. I can’t deny that it was, but compared to now?” He leans back in his seat, slowly shaking his head as he rubs his jaw with his fingers. “This is a whole other level of stress.”

“I want to help you in any way that I can,” I tell him, resting my arms on the edge of the table. “Whatever you need from me, just please . . . let me know.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to,” I say, interrupting him. “Please. I want to help.”