Lily Love (18 page)

“Be right back, Jimmy Mack.” She tucks her pen into her nest of hair and shimmies away, singing along to Martha and the Vandellas on the jukebox.

“She’s a trip.” Tate laughs. His eyes still sparkle with amusement when he returns his focus to me. “Timing?” He backtracks. “Yes, absolutely perfect timing, to answer your question. From the moment we met, you’ve been my bright spot in an otherwise dark time.”

My breath hitches as his words hit me. I’m blown away by the confidence he has in his explanation. I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified. We’ve only known each other for a few days, after all. That should be setting off alarms in my brain, telling me to run screaming
for the hills. Instead I find myself a bit envious of how sure he is. The only alarm I hear in my head is the one warning me not to be a coward.

“You should know, daisies are my favorite and red is my favorite color.” I smile when his face lights up with pride. It feels like I’m stepping out on a high wire without a safety net. Adrenaline courses through my blood, flooding me with an insurmountable high, while the unforgiving ground beneath waits for me fall on my face.

“They just looked like you.” He smirks, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m glad to know that I got it right.” I don’t know if it’s possible to be both cocky and humble at the same time, but Tate is trying his best for both, and it makes me want to lean across the table and kiss the smug smile off his face.

“You have no idea,” I say. My eyes home in on his mouth when he starts to chew his bottom lip thoughtfully. I squirm in my seat and swallow audibly.

“I don’t want to scare you, Caroline.” My eyes lift to his at the sound of my name. Pools of melted caramel beckon me with a sweetness I crave more than I can afford to admit. “I just can’t stop thinking about you.”

Oh, my sweet, forgotten libido, that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Tate,” I start to say, but I have no idea where to go with it. That’s a lie. I want to say, “I can’t stop thinking about you, either,” but I have enough sense to know that diving in headfirst is a bad idea. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to trace his dimples with my fingertips and taste his mouth . . .

“I’m not going to pervert our connection by misleading you about how you make me feel,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine. Pervert? Nice choice of words. It doesn’t matter how softly they’re spoken; their impact is jarring. “I’m out of control, yet completely at ease with it when I’m around you. You make me feel alive, which blows my mind, because, Caroline . . .” He reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of mine. I tell myself to close my eyes, to break our
connection, but I can’t. “I didn’t know I wasn’t living, not until the day you left your latte at the coffee bar.”

Gobsmacked. Stupefied. Astounded. Bewildered. Astonished . . .

I start to go through all the relevant adjectives I can think of to keep me from diving across the table into Tate’s lap. I can’t decide if he’s brave or reckless. I’m overwhelmed with emotions and hormones, and that’s not a good mix. Somebody’s got to be the voice of reason here. I force myself to pull back my hand and turn away. I have the perfect opportunity when Francine returns with our food.

“Bottoms up, Buttercup.” She winks at me, and then makes a point of pulling two straws out of her apron to stick in the milk shake. She smiles to herself as she retreats back to the kitchen, singing “Then He Kissed Me” by the Crystals. It’s not even playing on the damn jukebox.

Not you, too. Betty Sue.

“Caroline, look at me, please,” Tate pleads.

I’m not going to be a coward, but I’m not going to be an idiot, either. I unmask the myriad of feelings swimming in me and pray that when he looks at me he can see it all: fear, excitement, happiness, and terror. All of it battering my common sense, leaving me fragile and exposed. Our eyes meet again, and the rest disappears.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, because you hold all the power here,” he says. “You call the shots; you decide on the pace. Whatever it takes to make you believe you’re safe with me, because you are.”

“Have you lost your mind?” I squeak, as all my bravery flees the scene and panic sets in. My skin feels tight, like I’m going to burst out of it at any moment. The pressure the sling is putting around my neck is unbearable. I jerk my arm over my head, relieving my neck from the constricting straps. Freeing my arm is another story, as the Velcro from the brace is hung up in the fabric. I want the damned thing off, and after one final yank, it sails across the table, hitting Tate in the chest. I feel caged, cornered by his feelings and mine. Their power is palpable between us; it makes my resolve crack with each moment that passes. Control is my only security, and I can feel it slipping through
my fingers. It pisses me off. I blow a rogue hair out of my eyes and fight the urge to cry in frustration.

“Sanity is overrated,” he answers. “You know, you’re beautiful when you’re flustered.” So much for inspiring reason.

“Stop,” I practically beg. “You can’t just bulldoze me with all of your feelings and then expect me to know what to say. I can’t think with you coming at me like this. It’s not fair.” A tear escapes down my cheek, and I watch shame cast itself over Tate’s face.

“Don’t cry, Caroline,” he pleads. He moves swiftly, maneuvering out of his seat to slide in next to me. I tense at his close proximity and try to fight the overwhelming urge to lean into him. “I don’t want to bulldoze you. I just need to know whether you feel this
thing
between us, too. I don’t want to scare you away.” He brushes his hand along my jawline, savoring my skin with his gentle touch. The hum of electricity that crackles between us sends a trail of goose bumps along my arms and legs.

“Why aren’t you married?” I flatten myself against the far corner of the booth. The more space I can put between us, the more capable I’ll be of asking my questions (or so I think). From this vantage point I see the hunger Tate is fighting against. His eyes dance back and forth between my lips and eyes. “Don’t even think about kissing me until we clear some things up.”

His lips turn up at the corners when he replies, “Then I guess there’s no doubt about whether I get to, just when?” I flush a deep shade of crimson as my rebuttal is used against me.

“You . . . I . . . you, I mean . . .” I stutter and fail to defend myself. Tate’s amusement only makes it harder for me to speak, so I’m grateful when he takes pity on me and moves on.

“I was in a relationship for eight years. We never married, but we were engaged for the last year. I ended it a few months before our wedding, because I realized that I was only doing what people expected me to do, after all the years we spent together. It wasn’t what I wanted, though. She agreed with me, so we called off the wedding together.
That was four years ago.” He leans in toward me, and I flatten my back against the wall. His smile widens as he asks, “What else do you want to know?”

“Why didn’t you want to get married? Didn’t you love her?” I settle into my seat, anticipating the story unfolding. My stomach calls out to the French fries in front of me; I pick at my plate while I wait for him to continue. Taking his cue from me, Tate pulls his plate across the table and grazes his food while he talks.

“Laura and I met while we were in college. We were friends for a few years first. We were both engineering students, we had the same hobbies, ran in the same circles. So, during our senior year, we decided the two of us made sense together and started dating. I loved her very much, but I think there are different kinds of love. I
wanted
to love her more than I did, and I guess that’s why I proposed. After seven years, I thought taking the next step in our relationship would spawn something deeper between us.” He sighs.

It makes sense. And it makes me feel better knowing that he was in a long relationship like that. I find that far more reassuring than if he’d been a serial dater, or commitment-phobic.

We sit in silence while we finish our burgers, giving me a chance to really think about what I want. Despite the overwhelming anxiety, I want Tate. It makes no sense. I don’t know how to fit him into my life, or how I can fit into his, but it feels possible when we’re together, which defies all logic. For all the mess we bring to the table, we click.

Every so often I catch him scooting closer to me in the booth. In turn, I find myself peeling away from the wall, drawn closer to him, too. Eventually we end up elbow-to-elbow, sharing our milk shake, soaking in everything that’s transpired.

“So what ever happened to Laura?” I finally ask.

“She met someone else, got married, and ended up having a family of her own.” He smiles at me, and I can see the genuine affection he has for her. He’s happy for her, and that’s part of what I’ve come to expect
and like about him. “She had twins two years ago. A boy and a girl, just like me and Tarryn.”

“So you guys are still close?” I hate sounding insecure, but I want to know what I’m getting into beforehand. I keep my eyes focused on my plate.

Please, please don’t be carrying a torch for your married ex-girlfriend.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Caroline.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, and I lean into his touch. “Laura and I were always better friends than anything else. I’m not in love with her.”

His hand lingers on my neck, where my pulse is fluttering violently from his touch. How does he always know what I’m thinking? It makes me squirmy, which makes me want to crawl under the table.

“I don’t have any right to be worried, Tate. You aren’t mine.” The last thing I want is for him to think that I’m the overzealous possessive type; I just want to understand their relationship.

He shakes his head and laughs softly at my statement. Fabulous, he thinks I’m a nutter.

“Oh, Caroline.” He chuckles. “I was hooked the moment I walked into the courtyard and found you banging your head on the table. When we started talking, I felt this effortless connection to you. I can’t explain it.” I whip my head toward him to argue, but he places his finger on my lips. “I’d just gone a round with my mom’s oncologist about her prognosis. I was looking for someplace to clear my head, when I saw you. You were my breath of fresh air. I forgot about cancer for the first time in weeks. I saw the beautiful woman I’d had coffee with, and I welcomed the distraction, but sitting with you that day breathed life back into me. So, before you argue with me, let me pontificate—I feel alive when I’m with you.”

“Pontificate, huh?” I mumble from behind his finger. “That’s some vocabulary you’ve got there, Michaels.” You’d think he’d move his hand when I started speaking. Instead, he watches my mouth form words, and rubs his finger along my bottom lip. The way he’s touching me is making me dizzy. I’m practically panting with wanting him.

“I learned from the best,” he whispers. Tension coils tight in my belly when his breathing begins to parallel my own. I brush my hand along the path of his Adam’s apple as he struggles to swallow. My fingertips vibrate against his skin when he speaks my name. “Caroline.”

I press my lips against his finger, and I feel him tense with restraint. No longer capable of holding back, I move my hand around to the back of his neck and rub my nose along his jaw.

“Kiss me, Tate.” His name barely escapes before his lips meet mine. My heart nearly explodes from the ferocity of emotion swirling between us; the heat alone will certainly set the table on fire. The silk of his hair threads through my fingertips as I close my eyes and let him kiss me. The warmth of his lips spreads like wildfire through my body. It makes me shiver, despite the heat radiating between us.

“Don’t mind me.” Tate and I leap apart at the intrusion. Francine hands Tate the check and arches an eyebrow at me. “You have fun, honey bun.” This time she’s singing Peggy Lee’s “Fever” while Tate pulls out his wallet. I just got busted making out at Giff’s; fun is not the word I’m thinking of. Mortified, maybe. Escape? Why, yes, thank you. That sounds
great
.

“Caroline,” Tate calls as we walk into the parking lot. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I ask absently, searching my purse for my keys. He puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me and spins me around to face him.

“Don’t run,” he says.

I look at him and cringe. I see the fear in his expression and I feel terrible, because running is exactly what I want to do.

“Tate,” I start, but lose track of what my point was going to be. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You were going to say that we shouldn’t have kissed,” he says. I won’t contradict him with a lie.

“You scare me, Tate. I don’t think rationally when I’m around you.” I dip my head in defeat, but Tate cups my cheek, forcing me to look him in the eye.

“I feel the same way, Caroline, but I can’t stay away.” His eyes plead with me to understand, and I do, because neither can I.

I wrap my arms around his torso and nuzzle into his embrace.

“I don’t want you to.” I shock myself with the boldness of my response. I don’t want him to stay away, and I don’t want to either. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I have no idea how it’ll all play out. I just know that he’s special, and he makes me feel things I didn’t think I’d ever feel again. I can’t explain it, I just feel it—he’s worth the risk.

moondance

T
ate and I stand in the parking lot holding each other for a long time. I don’t know what the next step is, and I’m afraid of what letting go will mean. Do I go home? Does he go back to the hospital? It’s not like we can pretend nothing happened, but I can’t figure out where to go from here.

“Maybe we should find somewhere to talk,” Tate suggests. “I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

His admission goes a long way to relieve the anxiety churning in my gut. The last thing I want right now is to go home to an empty house and overanalyze our kiss to the point of madness. God, that kiss. I will never stop thinking about that kiss.

“Caroline?” Tate says. “Where did you drift off to?”

Recovering, I say, “Oh, I was just thinking about where we could go. I know a place, but it would be a short drive. Are you comfortable being away?” I ignore the stab of guilt I feel for trying to lure him away from the hospital. I tell myself it’s not
too
selfish to want to milk every minute out of this evening. Who knows what tomorrow is going to be like? There is so much uncertainty ahead, it can’t be wrong to want to savor this moment.