Chapter 4

CHAPTER4

SCARLETT

What am I doing?

I have no idea. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. It’s like fifteen-year-old Scarlett took over my body and took advantage of the situation.

And now I’ve got my lips planted firmly on Tate Ramsey’s, and ohmygod, the man can definitely kiss.

He seemed so . . . desperate. As if the last thing he wants to deal with is a nosy paparazzo splashing a bogus argument between us all over the internet. In that moment, the pleading expression on his face, I felt bad for him.

Then I thought of Ian and how ridiculous he’s being and had the quick realization that maybe he needs a push. The possibility of him seeing me with someone else was too irresistible. Next thing I know . . .

I’m kissing him. Tate Ramsey.

And his lips? They’re soft and sweetly persistent. He takes over the moment completely, his arms tightening around me, his hand sliding up my back ever so slowly, his fingers encountering bare skin. A shiver steals over me when his fingertips glide over my spine, and I curl my fingers into the front of his shirt, my lips automatically parting for his tongue. It dances with mine, light and flickering, and I lean into him, my lips parting further, an unfamiliar sensation coasting through my body.

He pulls away before we can take it too far, and I battle with the disappointment flooding me. When I open my eyes, it’s to find him watching me with a concerned expression on his handsome face.

Did I mention that he’s so much more handsome than he ever was when he was in Five Car Pileup? He is all man now. Oh, the boyishly sweet smile from before was still there throughout his performance, as well as that charisma he always exuded back in the day when he was on top of the world. When you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing about Five Car Pileup and their tour. Their songs. Their influence on teenage girls worldwide.

But he’s different now. Older and quieter and possibly even . . . edgier?

Or maybe that’s my overactive imagination. I’m not sure.

“Get enough of us yet?”

I startle at the sound of Tate’s deep voice, the hostility in his tone, and I realize he’s not talking to me at all.

He’s talking to the photographer, who is still snapping photos of us with our arms wrapped around each other. I’m sure to him we look like a bona fide couple, and I’m tempted to pull away from Tate. Gain some distance from him.

But I remain in place, frozen. Trembling. He skims his fingers down my back once again, a reassuring gesture that has me dipping my head, suddenly shy.

Regret hits me. This probably wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made. I’m not an impulsive person, not even close, but what is Ian going to think if he sees these photos?

Hmmm. Considering I’m a nobody and Tate is a has-been, I don’t think we have much to worry about.

The photographer lowers his massive camera with the giant flash—how did I not notice him before?—and grins at us. “Always hoping for a little more from you, Tate. You know how it is. And let me just say that I think you two make a nice couple.”

Tate crowds me, which is almost impossible thanks to the size of my skirt, and shields me from the photographer with his body as best he can. “I’m sure you snapped plenty of photos of us. Now get the fuck out of here.”

I stare up at Tate while the photographer scrambles away from us, Tate glaring the entire time, his body tense, his jaw tight. Only when the photographer is gone does Tate ease up some. He loosens his hold on me, and I step away from him, hating how woozy I suddenly feel.

It couldn’t be the kiss that affected me. Not like that. Maybe it was the champagne I’ve consumed tonight. I don’t really drink. Not even at parties when I was still in high school. But maybe the few glasses I’ve snuck tonight went straight to my head.

“Sorry about that,” Tate says grimly, running his fingers along his jaw. “I didn’t think the paparazzi would care enough to snap photos of me.”

Were they really here for Tate Ramsey? Or did my father let them in?

“I can’t believe they snuck into my party.” I bend my head, shaking out my skirts, trying to fight another wave of disappointment. My eighteenth birthday, and the only reason I kiss a guy is so we could distract a photographer.

Ian wasn’t impressed by my dress, my party . . . none of it. I don’t even know where he is. I’ve wasted a lot of time crushing on him, when clearly, he’s not interested in me.

He’s made that more than obvious.

“Your father spared no expense for this party.” Tate smiles, and a fleet of butterflies erupts in my stomach, making me breathless. “An event like this always draws a lot of media attention.”

“My parents did mention they invited a few reporters and photographers they’re close to, to cover the event. Mostly from fashion magazines and sites.” My parents’ wedding was featured in Vogue and Town & Country. They were the chicest couple in New York City at one point during the early years of their marriage.

“I’m sure that’s who the photographer was with,” Tate reassures me, but I catch the worry in his gaze. “Though he did look pretty familiar. I might’ve met him . . . before.”

“Right.” I’m distracted as I glance around the massive ballroom, realizing that we’re in a very dark and private corner tucked away from everyone else. The party is raging on without me. I can hear conversations flowing, accompanied by laughter. Music is playing, a slow, sensuous beat, and that’s when I spot two women draped in pearls and not much else dancing across the stage, massive pink feather fans in their hands.

I vaguely remember my father mentioning he hired dancers for the party. Looks like they started their performance.

“I should go.” I turn to Tate, his gaze lifting to mine rather guiltily, and I wonder what he was staring at. My butt? How could he even see it in this dress? “I’m sure my father expects me to watch the dancers.”

“Looks like burlesque.” When I turn to him, he explains further. “Pretty sexy stuff. They’re barely dressed.”

A spotlight hits the stage, revealing two scantily clad women in a giant champagne glass tossing their arms up in the air, strings of pearls covering their chests and almost revealing their nipples. In fact, I’m fairly certain I just saw a flash of pink. “Oh. This is kind of . . .”

“Scandalous?” Tate finishes for me.

I nod, turning to look at him once more. “My father likes to go a little overboard when he throws a party.”

I adore my father, but he also likes to make it all about him. Such as the burlesque dancers. That’s really not my kind of thing.

“Isn’t this your party, though?” Tate lifts his brows questioningly, and I can only shrug helplessly, unable to explain.

“Shouldn’t it be all about you?” he continues when I still haven’t said anything.

“I suppose.” It’s never been about me.

Not that I can remember.

“I have a question.” He leans back on his heels, contemplating me.

“What is it?”

“Are you mad at me that I kissed you?”

I gawk at him for about two seconds before I realize what I’m doing and snap my lips shut, shocked at his change of subject. “N-no.”

“You sure?” He lifts his brows, his gaze locked on me and no one else.

I stand up a little straighter, trying to appear composed. Like the mature adult woman I now am. As if it’s normal for me to be kissed by random men on my birthday.

“Positive,” I say firmly.

His smile is slow, spreading wide upon his handsome face until it’s a devastating, breath-stealing grin. “Good. I know I’ll never forget it.”

I blink at him, unsure how to answer.

“It’s okay. You can admit you liked it too.”

“I-I’m somewhat involved with someone else,” I say, sounding absurdly prim.

And lying through my teeth.

“Really? Where’s he at?” Tate glances around the cavernous ballroom.

I can’t tell him Ian left, though I already did say exactly that. Even if Ian were here, I’m sure he wouldn’t go along with me if I asked him to. He would probably gently correct me and insist to Tate that we’re just friends.

Sometimes, Ian can be . . . annoying.

“He’s around,” I say, hoping I sound mysterious.

“Uh-huh.” He scrubs the side of his jaw, his gaze full of doubt.

I realize I need to change the subject fast. I decide to go the polite route. “Thank you again for performing at my party.”

“Thank you again for helping me out,” he returns, referring to the kiss.

I just know he is.

Is he still thinking about it? I am, even though I’d be loath to admit it. He’s not the man I wanted to kiss on my birthday, though my younger self would’ve absolutely died at the chance to kiss the Tate Ramsey.

But he’s not that same teen heartthrob anymore. And I’m not that young girl anymore either.

The kiss was still good, though, as reluctant as I am to admit it.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you before. I was out of sorts and upset over something, but it’s fine now,” I tell him, feeling the need to apologize.

His brows draw together in concern. “What made you so upset?”

“Oh, nothing really.” I shake my head, not about to go into detail about my pathetic pseudorelationship with Ian. “It’s not that important.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m very sure.” I nod, trying to laugh, but I stop at how fake it sounds. “You can stay for the party and hang out if you’d like.”

Oh, that sounded stupid. He must think I’m ridiculous. I’m sure he has a gorgeous woman who he calls his girlfriend and a bunch of friends he prefers to spend time with waiting for him to be done. The last thing he wants to do is hang out at some rich girl’s eighteenth-birthday party.

He takes two steps closer, the warm, woodsy scent of his cologne washing over me, and I lock my knees so I don’t wobble and tip over. “Happy birthday, Scarlett,” he murmurs, his deep voice settling for a too-brief moment with a throb between my legs.

And then he’s gone.

* * *

“There you are! Oh my God, what happened to you?” Rachel grabs hold of my hand, stopping me from blindly walking past her.

I stop short, trying to offer up a smile as she watches me with true confusion in her gaze. “Sorry, I went . . . to the bathroom.”

“Ah.” She accepts my answer with ease. “Well, you missed the dancers.”

“No, I didn’t.” I incline my head toward the voluptuous women moving across the stage, their bodies moving to the slow yet steady beat. “They’re right there.”

“They’re almost done.” Rachel hooks her arm through mine, her smile bright. “They’re great and all, but no one can top that performance by Tate Ramsey. My God, he was amazing! I hope you enjoyed it, or were you worrying about Ian the entire time?”

I bristle at her mentioning Ian. Or maybe that’s a case of guilt washing over me. “Of course I enjoyed it. He even called me up onstage.”

The knowing look on Rachel’s face appears, and I brace myself for her assessment. “You looked like you wanted to kick him in the teeth.”

Leave it to Rach to be totally honest with me. “I definitely didn’t want to kick him in the teeth.”

“Hurt him then. Just a little. Twist his arm behind his back or something.” Rachel laughs, rushing right on and not letting me speak. “Uggghhhh, he was so good tonight. Better than he ever was. His voice was perfection. I swear my panties melted right off when he sang ‘Lonely for You.’”

“Rachel!” I admonish, glancing around to make sure no one heard her say that. “Your panties did not melt off.”

“They kind of did. He caught my eye at one point during the song, and the way he stared at me—I swear he was smoldering.” Rachel fans herself with her fingers. “So sexy.”

An unfamiliar feeling rises up within me, and I glare at my best friend, realizing only moments later that the feeling I’m experiencing is good old-fashioned jealousy. “I don’t know if I would consider him sexy.”

“Liar. He’s hot as hell and had every woman in this room screaming. Even the old grandmas.” Rachel glances around, her sparkling gaze meeting mine once she’s done a thorough sweep. “Where did you disappear to, anyway? Please tell me you were talking to Tate. That he asked for your number or promised he was going to DM you.”

I grimace. “No, he didn’t ask me for anything.”

Well, he did ask for a favor . . .

And I ended up kissing him, which was okay.

God, I’m such a liar. I totally enjoyed that, but I’m also dealing with a bit of guilt here. I can’t go around kissing some former boy bander while I might still have a chance with Ian. Despite how he treated me tonight, how he pretty much blew me off, I still can’t help but think we have a chance.

Stupid.

“That’s a shame.” Rachel sighs, her tone melancholy. “I was sort of hoping he’d fall madly in love with you while crooning love songs and eye-fucking you from the stage. Talk about a love story.”

She starts belting out the lyrics to “Love Story” by Taylor Swift, and I have to literally slap my hand over her mouth to shut her up. When I finally drop my hand, she’s laughing, shaking her head.

“Didn’t Taylor go out with Tate?” she asks.

“She’s much older than him,” I point out. “I’m pretty sure he went out with Billie Eilish, though.”

“Really?” Rachel tilts her head to the side. “She’s such a mystery to me. I’d love to hear any of his Billie stories.”

“I’m not going to ask him for any Billie stories,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“Aha!” Rachel points an accusatory finger at me. “You were talking to him. Did something happen between you two? You disappeared for a long time. Did you give him your number? Did he follow you on social media? What if he slips into your DMs? You have to respond to him. What if you got the chance to actually go out on a date with freaking Tate Ramsey?”

She starts bouncing up and down, giddy at the idea.

I grab hold of her shoulders and shake her a little, her dazed gaze meeting mine. “Nothing happened. And nothing will happen between me and Tate. I like Ian, remember?”

The grimace on Rachel’s face is almost comical. “Please don’t remind me.”

I ignore the insult, releasing my hold on her as I glance to the left, then to the right, wondering if Tate is still here.

But I don’t see him at all.