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“Did you tell him?” Rachel asks.
“Not really,” I admit. I’m about to tell Rachel yet again how much I need her to keep this thing quiet, but I can’t do that here. Not when there are too many people around us.
Too many people possibly listening to us.
My phone buzzes again and I check it.
Tate: What restaurant are you at?
I give him the name and drop a pin with my exact location.
Tate: Perfect. I’ll be there in a few minutes.
Panic joins the cocktail of emotions currently swirling inside of me, and I blink at my phone in mute shock.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel’s voice rises. “You look really freaked out right now.”
“Tate just said he’ll be here in a few minutes.” I lift my head to stare at her. “He’s coming here.”
“What? You don’t want him crashing our last girls’-night dinner?” Rachel grabs a fried green bean and points it at me like a weapon. “He better not come between us. Especially since he’s your fa?—”
“People are spying on us,” I interrupt her, not wanting the wordfaketo be said out loud.
Rachel slowly glances around the restaurant, her eyes narrowed. It feels like practically every person in here turns their head all at once, pretending they don’t notice us. I can see the realization dawn in Rachel’s eyes. The mischievous smile slowly appearing on her face. “Well, well, well. Looks like you hit Fitzy Lancaster celebrity status, Scarlett. All by dating a has-been boy band member.”
“He’s not a has-been,” I correct. Not even close. The online chatter about Tate hasn’t lessened whatsoever. In the last day it’s become even worse. Rumor has it the single is going to debut in the top ten on theBillboardcharts. He’s a big deal.
“If Tate Ramsey shows up here, he’s going to cause major chaos,” Rachel whispers, her eyes wide.
My stomach dips. “I think that’s exactly what he wants.”
And I’m not sure if I’m fully prepared for it.
CHAPTER20
TATE
I’m headed to the restaurant where Scarlett is, only at Simon and Roger’s suggestion. Simon is currently in the car with me, driving me to the location so I can make an ass of myself at their recommendation.
“This is stupid,” I mutter under my breath, staring bleakly at the endless line of stopped traffic ahead of us.
“It’s not stupid,” Simon reassures. “Roger says it’s going to make you and Scarlett even more recognizable and endearing to the public. And I happen to agree with the asshole.”
They’re both assholes, if you ask me, making me do this. “What if I humiliate myself and end up looking like a total ass?”
Simon glances over at me, his brows drawn together. “You still have some lingering PTSD you’re trying to cope with? I thought you were in therapy.”
“I haven’t gone to therapy in over a year.” It got too expensive, and the piddly health insurance I have eventually stopped covering my visits, so I gave it up.
“Maybe you should start those appointments back up. I’ll see to it that the label pays for them,” Simon suggests, just before he lays on the horn and screams out, “Fuck you!” to some random car.
I about jump out of my skin at his aggressive tone, sending him a look. “Sounds like you need therapy more than I do.”
“I see Joanie once a week, sometimes twice.” He shrugs.
I’m assuming he’s talking about his therapist. “And what does Joanie say about you?”
“That I’m full of rage and should stop taking it out on my clients.” The sharkish grin Simon sends my way has me laughing, the fucker.
