course—the Dirty B. boys rarely get to go anywhere without being mobbed by either fans or cameras, especially on tour.
Tate and the security guy catch up with me halfway across the parking lot. Another car pulls up and a camera lens is poked out of a window. Immediately, I duck my head so my hair is covering my face.
The more hidden I can stay, the better.
Tate eyes me curiously but doesn’t say a word, and I’m grateful.
We enter the store and walk through the aisles to where the boxed cakes are. Tate scans the shelves until he finds a Frozen one. He sets it in the cart gently, then turns to me. “Last month it was Peppa Pig . This month it’s all about Olaf.”
“I have no idea what any of that is.”
He stops and looks back at me. “You don’t know what Peppa or Frozen is?”
“ Frozen is a movie?” I guess.
“Do New Yorkers live under child-hating rocks?”
My lips twitch. “In my parents’ circles? Yes.”
“Awesome.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “I have approximately thirty minutes to educate you on Frozen .”
I blink at him. Did he just—is Tate Burke seriously going to tell me about a kid’s movie?
Twelve hours ago I was kicking someone out of his room. Now I’m about to get a lesson in Frozen .
This must be the Twilight Zone.
I stare at the snowman-style tea set. “That’s Olaf?”
“The snowman.” Tate nods. “If you really want to get her a birthday present, she’d love you forever if you got this.”
“Right.” I pick up the box and study it. Disney sure has come a long way since The Little Mermaid . “I still don’t understand the movie.”
Tate wheels the cart down the aisle to the books. I follow him and stop next to him. He grabs a Frozen book off the shelf and hands it to me. “Here. Educate yourself, Els.”
I cut my eyes to him. “You want me to stand in the middle of the aisle in Target to read a children’s story?”
He shrugs. “Or in the car. I’m buyin’ her the book anyway. Conner loves to read stories.” His grin is mischievous.
“I think the car will be best,” I say slowly, putting both the tea set and the book in the cart with the cake. “Do you have wrapping paper?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“Um, yes.” I roll my eyes and hook my finger over the end of the cart. “Come on.” I tug it. “Seriously, you know all the kid’s shows but you don’t know to wrap presents. And you say I lived under a rock.”
“Frozen. Peppa Pig. Sesame Street. Doc McStuffins. Mickey Mouse.”
“I know Mickey Mouse!”
“ Clubhouse ?”
“What is that?” I stop by the rolls of paper and look back at Tate.
He shakes his head. “Amateur.”
My jaw drops. He grabs four rolls of paper then drops them into the cart.
“I don’t have any kids in my family, and neither does my ex. I’m not used to . . . this.” I look at the contents of the cart.
“Ex, huh?”
I freeze. “What? Just because you don’t have one, you think no one else does?”
Tate spins on his feet, twirling the cart round with him. “No. I’ve just been wonderin’ how and why you ended up as a PA with a degree from fuckin’ Harvard, and now I know. You’re runnin’ from an ex.”
“N-no. I’m not?”
His lips twitch. “You don’t sound so sure there, darlin’.”
“I’m not running,” I repeat, forcing my voice to be steady.
“So why are you here?”
“I needed a change of scenery.”
“Riiiiight.” Tate rings the items through the self-checkout, even mine, and deposits them back into the cart.
“I can pay for mine.”
“Sure you can, but I’ve done it now.”
“I’m paying you back.”
“I’m sure you will, Els.”
“Will you stop calling me that?”
“Will you stop lyin’ about why you’re here?”
I inhale slowly when he opens the trunk and puts the shopping bags in. “I’m not lying.”
“Mhmm.” He pushes the cart to the security guy, who wheels it over to the cart shelter. Then he walks to me, slowly, and
Tate and the security guy catch up with me halfway across the parking lot. Another car pulls up and a camera lens is poked out of a window. Immediately, I duck my head so my hair is covering my face.
The more hidden I can stay, the better.
Tate eyes me curiously but doesn’t say a word, and I’m grateful.
We enter the store and walk through the aisles to where the boxed cakes are. Tate scans the shelves until he finds a Frozen one. He sets it in the cart gently, then turns to me. “Last month it was Peppa Pig . This month it’s all about Olaf.”
“I have no idea what any of that is.”
He stops and looks back at me. “You don’t know what Peppa or Frozen is?”
“ Frozen is a movie?” I guess.
“Do New Yorkers live under child-hating rocks?”
My lips twitch. “In my parents’ circles? Yes.”
“Awesome.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “I have approximately thirty minutes to educate you on Frozen .”
I blink at him. Did he just—is Tate Burke seriously going to tell me about a kid’s movie?
Twelve hours ago I was kicking someone out of his room. Now I’m about to get a lesson in Frozen .
This must be the Twilight Zone.
I stare at the snowman-style tea set. “That’s Olaf?”
“The snowman.” Tate nods. “If you really want to get her a birthday present, she’d love you forever if you got this.”
“Right.” I pick up the box and study it. Disney sure has come a long way since The Little Mermaid . “I still don’t understand the movie.”
Tate wheels the cart down the aisle to the books. I follow him and stop next to him. He grabs a Frozen book off the shelf and hands it to me. “Here. Educate yourself, Els.”
I cut my eyes to him. “You want me to stand in the middle of the aisle in Target to read a children’s story?”
He shrugs. “Or in the car. I’m buyin’ her the book anyway. Conner loves to read stories.” His grin is mischievous.
“I think the car will be best,” I say slowly, putting both the tea set and the book in the cart with the cake. “Do you have wrapping paper?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“Um, yes.” I roll my eyes and hook my finger over the end of the cart. “Come on.” I tug it. “Seriously, you know all the kid’s shows but you don’t know to wrap presents. And you say I lived under a rock.”
“Frozen. Peppa Pig. Sesame Street. Doc McStuffins. Mickey Mouse.”
“I know Mickey Mouse!”
“ Clubhouse ?”
“What is that?” I stop by the rolls of paper and look back at Tate.
He shakes his head. “Amateur.”
My jaw drops. He grabs four rolls of paper then drops them into the cart.
“I don’t have any kids in my family, and neither does my ex. I’m not used to . . . this.” I look at the contents of the cart.
“Ex, huh?”
I freeze. “What? Just because you don’t have one, you think no one else does?”
Tate spins on his feet, twirling the cart round with him. “No. I’ve just been wonderin’ how and why you ended up as a PA with a degree from fuckin’ Harvard, and now I know. You’re runnin’ from an ex.”
“N-no. I’m not?”
His lips twitch. “You don’t sound so sure there, darlin’.”
“I’m not running,” I repeat, forcing my voice to be steady.
“So why are you here?”
“I needed a change of scenery.”
“Riiiiight.” Tate rings the items through the self-checkout, even mine, and deposits them back into the cart.
“I can pay for mine.”
“Sure you can, but I’ve done it now.”
“I’m paying you back.”
“I’m sure you will, Els.”
“Will you stop calling me that?”
“Will you stop lyin’ about why you’re here?”
I inhale slowly when he opens the trunk and puts the shopping bags in. “I’m not lying.”
“Mhmm.” He pushes the cart to the security guy, who wheels it over to the cart shelter. Then he walks to me, slowly, and
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