Chapter 27

CHAPTER27

SCARLETT

“Shit.”

I lurk outside the den where Tate is working, going still when I hear him curse. He’s been tense since our first night here, after the incident at the restaurant. The moment in the back of the car. I figured it was sexual frustration at first, but he’s been working in this room nonstop since we arrived in Los Angeles. Sometimes I’ll go to bed and he’ll be in here, only for me to wake up and find him in the same position.

Like he didn’t even bother going to bed.

He’s currently muttering under his breath and scribbling words inside of a journal, which is what I keep seeing him do every time I walk past the open door. Or he’s having meetings with Roger, or on Zoom with Simon.

But when Roger comes over, it’s worse. He always leaves Tate even more tense than before he arrived.

It’s been . . . difficult, the last few days. Not for me but for him.

Tate begins to hum, his deep, smooth voice washing over me, and then he starts to sing.

“I’ve got you no matter what, but you don’t put your trust in me . . .” His voice drifts, the melody over. “No. That’s pure shit.”

Deciding to make my presence known, I appear in the doorway, waving at him awkwardly. “No it’s not. I liked it.”

He glances over at me, his expression flat, his eyes dull. Clearly the man is exhausted. And stressed. “Hey. What are you up to?”

Noticing how he didn’t acknowledge my compliment, I let it go.

“Nothing.” I wander into the room, approaching him slowly. He’s kicked back on the overstuffed white couch, that ever-present worn-out notebook in his lap, the lines he’s written on it looking more like angry slashes. Lots of scribbling and words that have been crossed out so hard the paper is dented. “I’m kind of bored.”

“We’ve only been here three days.”

“I know. And like I said, I’m already bored.” I sit on the edge of the coffee table, just to the left of him. “I haven’t left the house since the first night we got here.”

“You have a nice tan to show for it.” His gaze warms as it skims over me.

I glance down at my arms, then my legs. They’re golden from the sun, like the majority of my body is. “I can only lay out by the pool for so long.”

An aggravated exhale leaves him, and he leans his head back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “If you’re looking for me to entertain you, I’m the wrong guy. I need to focus and work on these songs.”

“How are they coming along?” I already know the answer.

“Fucking terrible.” He chucks the pen he was holding across the room, and it lands on the bare floor with a clatter, rolling underneath the love seat. “I think I have serious writer’s block.”

“You don’t have any songs finished? Not one?” I’ve overheard enough snippets of conversation between Roger and Tate to know that Roger has high expectations. He wants a list of songs for an album in like . . . less than two weeks. More like one.

“I have a couple of titles. No actual lyrics. Lyrics that are any good, that is.” He jumps to his feet and starts pacing the length of the room. “Honestly? I’m fucking frustrated. Nothing is coming to me—like, nothing. I think it’s the pressure. Knowing the expectations that they’ve put on me—I’m buckling. Drawing a complete blank.”

I watch him walk back and forth across the room, his gaze on the floor as he grips the back of his neck. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest, and despite the casual outfit and the disheveled hair, he is still mouthwateringly gorgeous.

“Maybe you need a change of scenery,” I suggest.

He stops in the middle of the room, throwing his arms out wide. “That’s exactly what this is. I’m in a whole new location with a fucking studio at my fingertips and all the fucking sunshine I could ever ask for, and I can’t even take advantage of it. I’m not getting shit done.”

“I haven’t seen you go to the studio at all,” I say, referring to the small studio that’s on the property, not too far from the pool.

“Because that place intimidates the hell out of me. I went out there a couple of days ago, in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, and the moment I walked inside, I froze up. All sorts of old feelings came at me, one after the other.” He’s got both hands in his hair now, sliding down to grip at the back of his neck as he turns to face me. “I want a drink.”

Alarm fills me, and I stand, panicking, unsure of what to say. “You can’t drink.”

“I know. And I won’t.” He hesitates. “But I want one just the same.” He blinks, gazing at the floor. “‘Just the same.’ That’s a great song title too.”

Tate dashes over to the coffee table and picks up the discarded notebook, glancing around in search of his pen. I assume he remembers he threw it because he grabs his phone instead and taps some information into it before he shoves it into his pocket.

“Let’s get out of here,” I suggest. “We can, I don’t know—throw on a hat and some sunglasses so no one will recognize us, and we can just drive. Stop somewhere and grab some food. You need to get out of your head and out of this house.”

“I haven’t driven a car in a while,” he admits, looking sheepish. “What if I wreck it?”

“That’s what insurance is for. Come on, Tate. We need to get out of here and do something on our own. Escape this atmosphere for a bit, because instead of helping you, it feels like it’s stifling you.”

“It totally is,” he agrees.

“Or maybe you should go by yourself.” I was sort of hoping I could get out of here too. I feel like I’m climbing the walls, and I have almost six more weeks of this monotony.

I’m over it. There’s only so much scrolling online and lying out by the pool I can do. I want to explore. Check things out. I’d even go to Disneyland for the day if I could. I’ve been to Disney World in Orlando, but I’ve never checked out the California park.

“If I go by myself, I’ll end up even more in my head, and that’s not where I want to be.” He levels that intense blue gaze on me. “You need to come with me.”

“I’ll go with you.” I glance down at myself. “I should change.”

“Hurry up and go do it before I leave without you.” He’s grinning. That’s the first time I’ve seen him smile in days, so I take it as a good sign.

“Do we have a car?” I ask.

“There’s a couple in the garage that Roger provided. Remember?”

Oh, that’s right. We have everything we need at our fingertips, yet we’ve barely left the house, much to Roger’s annoyance, I’m sure.

“I’ll go change too,” Tate says as he starts to exit the room.

I follow after him, darting into my room and shutting the door. I go through my clothes, deciding on a cute floral-print dress, shedding my T-shirt and shorts quickly before I yank the dress into place. After brushing my hair and applying a little mascara, I slip on some white Nikes and go out into the hall to find Tate already waiting for me.

“Ready to go?” He’s got car keys in his fingers, twirling the key ring around, and I nod, eager to leave.

We walk out to the garage, and Tate hits a button so the door slides up. Two men from the security team appear in the driveway, frowns on their faces and sunglasses covering their eyes.

“Where are you two off to, Mr. Ramsey?”

“Going on a drive.” Tate opens the passenger-side door of the Porsche 911 for me, and I slip inside.

“Don’t you think we should accompany you?” The man is tall and broad and incredibly imposing, but Tate seems completely unfazed.

“Nope. We don’t plan on stopping anywhere.” He leans against the still-open door.

“Just driving?”

“Just driving,” Tate agrees with a nod before he glances down at me and winks.

He slams the car door, cutting me off from whatever conversation they continue having, and by the time he’s slipping into the driver’s seat, both men have entered the house. “Did you bring a hat?”

I shake my head, glancing toward the door that leads into the house. “Should I go grab one?”

“No. I brought one for you just in case.” He reaches into the narrow back seat and holds up the sun hat I like to use when I’m out by the pool. I see his black baseball cap sitting next to it on the seat. “You got sunglasses?”

I nod, holding up my Prada straw tote. “In here.”

“Perfect.” He starts the car and presses on the gas, the engine roaring to life, and then hits a button. The top of the car slowly lifts away from us, turning the Porsche into a convertible, and I can’t help it.

I laugh.

“Your laugh is like a song,” he tells me, his voice as serious as the look on his face, and my heart catches, I swear.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I ask, teasing him.

He smiles, shifting the car into reverse. “It’s a really good fucking thing.”

Tate backs the car out of the driveway and pulls out onto the street, taking off with a loud squeal of the tires as he shifts the car into a higher gear. He drives like a maniac through the neighborhood, and I reach out to brace my hand against the inside of the passenger door, yelping at every corner he takes.

The man drives like a demon, and when he finally notices the look of pure terror on my face, he starts to laugh. “It’s okay, Scar. I’ve got you.”

We come to a squealing stop at a red light, the engine rumbling, a sleek black BMW convertible stopping directly beside us. I glance over to find two beautiful blond women blatantly checking Tate out. One of them even slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose to see him better.

“Damn it.” Tate turns his head toward me so they can’t see his actual face, his expression one of pure panic. “I forgot the hat.”

“And the sunglasses.” I reach into the center console and hold up the pair he brought with him, and he takes them from me, slipping them over his eyes.

“Maybe they don’t recognize me,” he murmurs.

“Hey, Tate!” one of the women yells.

He winces, and I can’t help it—I smirk at him. “I think they might.”

Ignoring them, he leans over the center console and presses his lips to mine, stealing my breath with one kiss. The light turns green, the car behind us honks with impatience, and within seconds Tate is facing forward once more, gunning the engine and zooming past the BMW. I turn and grab our hats from the back seat, plopping my sun hat on my head firmly so it won’t fly off before I hand the baseball cap to Tate.

“Put it on me,” he says with a grin as he slows down and turns right, onto the on-ramp for the freeway.

I flip it so the bill is backward and shove it on his head, leaning over and pressing my lips against his cheek. As I pull away from him, he grins, and something bubbles in my chest.

Happiness.

I like seeing him like this. Carefree and smiling. It’s as if the second he got behind the wheel of the sports car, he forgot all his troubles. And we’ve barely left the neighborhood.

“This was a good idea, Scar,” he says as he presses his foot on the gas, the speedometer close to eighty in seconds. “Getting away for a little bit.”

“Where are we going?” I lean my head back against the seat, watching him. The man from a few minutes ago with the dull eyes and sullen expression is gone. Now he’s smiling, that dimple in full view, his hair flipped up at the ends and blowing with the wind, barely contained by the ball cap.

I like this version of Tate much better.

“I don’t know.” He hits the blinker and glances in the rearview mirror, changing lanes. “How about the ocean? We could walk along the beach.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Not any of them close by, don’t you think? They’ll be so crowded. People will recognize you.”

“Us,” he corrects, glancing over at me quickly before he returns his attention to the road. “And that’s a valid point.”

“Something we’re trying to avoid,” I remind him. “Especially if we don’t have security with us.”

“Are you worried?”

“Not at all. I only wanted you to relax for a bit.” I smile at him, pressing my hand on top of my head to keep my hat in place. The floppy brim is waving so much I’m worried it’s going to fly off. “Just take me far away from here, and we’re good.”

“You’re right. Maybe we should go to Newport. Laguna. Oceanside?”

“We’ll need to eat.” My stomach growls to remind me. I swear I wasn’t nearly as hungry back home as I am all the time here in California. I blame the endless blue skies and sunshine.

“We can find a restaurant.”

“And I might get thirsty.”

“Are you led by your gut, Scarlett?” He sends me a look.

“Maybe.” I laugh, dropping my hand, and just like that, the wind takes my hat, making me squeal. “Oh no!”

“Too late.” He glances in the rearview mirror again, like he can see it being whisked away. “Bye-bye, hat.”

“I loved that hat.” I pout for a moment, then glance over my shoulder, but it’s already gone.

“It’s okay. I’ll buy you another one.” He reaches over and settles his hand on my knee, his fingers inching up my leg until they’re resting on my thigh. His palm is warm and broad, and his touch feels like a brand.

Claiming me.

There’s no one around to see our supposed act. What’s going on between us doesn’t feel like an act at all.

More like it feels terribly, wonderfully real.