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  I don’t know why I’m freaking out. Malik has seen my less-than-stellar clothes already. But this . . . this is different. This is supposed to be a date. Romantic and special and . . .

  I blow out a slow breath.

  “Whoa,” a voice says. I spin around to find my mom standing in the doorway, surveying the damage. “Uh, spring cleaning?”

  I grimace. “I have a date and I have nothing to wear.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Is this a group thing, or a—”

  “No, just the two of us.”

  “And who is the lucky guy?”

  I stare at the carpet, burrowing my toes in. “Don’t be mad.”

  “Why would I be mad?”

  “It’s Malik Buchannan.”

  “Oh,” she says, and when I glance up her lips are parted, her eyes wide with surprise.

  And I know, without a doubt, the Malik she’s picturing is the one everyone else sees. The billionaire’s playboy grandson. The heir to a kingdom.

  “Yeah. But I swear I won’t talk about you at all, and we’re meeting in Redmond, so I won’t see his grandpa or anything. Please, please, please let me go.”

  She studies me, and I can see her churning through all the possibilities, wondering if this is a bad idea. For effect, I drop to my knees. “Please, please, please?”

  She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorjamb. “Fine. I guess it’s okay as long as his grandfather isn’t around.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised.

  “I don’t like it,” she says, “but I have a feeling warning you away won’t do me much good. So just . . . be careful.”

  “I won’t hang out with him here at all,” I say. “I’ll stay away from Mr. Buchannan just like we said.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she says.

  “Oh.”

  “I meant . . . just don’t get hurt by him. Malik. I understand he’s dated a long list of girls. I don’t know that you want to invest much of yourself in the relationship.”

  “He’s not the guy on TMZ,” I say. “He’s . . . nice. I think I can trust him.”

  It’s like she’s fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “I thought I could trust your father, and look how that turned out.”

  I grit my teeth. “Geez, he’s not Dad, Mom. He’s a good guy. And we’re not serious. It’s just one date.”

  “All right then. If you’re going to do this, I guess I could loan you an outfit.”

  “Really?” I ask, brightening. I can’t believe she’s cool with this.

  “Yeah. It’s just a date, right? You’re still going off to college soon.”

  It hits me, then, that she can’t fathom the idea that anything between Malik and me could be real or could become serious.

  She’s letting me do this because she thinks nothing will come of it.

  It’s a fling. And that’s a good thing, because if it’s only a fling, maybe I don’t have to tell Malik who I really am. Where I come from. We can have fun this summer and then just . . . move on, and he’ll never know my real name.

  “Right,” I say, because it’s the only rational answer. “We’re just hanging out.”

  She sighs, and I have the strongest feeling she’s giving in to this, despite her better instincts. “I have a skirt. It’s too small so I was going to return it, but it would go nicely with that blouse,” she says, pointing to a pale pink sleeveless V-neck on my bed.

  “Perfect.”

  I follow her over to her room, and she steps into her enormous walk-in closet, returning with a black pencil skirt, a pair of heels dangling from her fingertips. “Try this.”

  I grin and bounce forward, giving her a quick hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Just don’t make me regret it, okay? I think I’m finally winning over Charles.”

  “Really?”

  She nods. “Or maybe just wearing him down. I procured a promise that he would consider trying one of the restaurants. I don’t know—maybe he was just saying it to get rid of me. So far he’s only done meal delivery.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. Hopefully, he follows through. Maybe you can figure out how to plant a bug in Malik’s ear, get him to convince Charles to go sooner rather than later.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say. “I kind of sensed some tension between them. I don’t think he appreciates that his daughter and grandson keep pushing him.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll figure out how to lure him out on my own.”

  “Good luck,” I say, stepping out of her bedroom. “And thanks for the clothes.”

  • • •

  Two hours later, I’m standing beside the rain garden in Redmond Town Center, watching three kids whoop and holler and smack everything they can find with rubber mallets. I’ve never been here before, but according to the placard, the usual Seattle rain is supposed to make a bunch of different noises when it hits the various metal domes and cones and iron leaves.

  Only, it’s the kids, their hands, and the mallets smacking all the surfaces who create a surprisingly pleasant melody on this dry summer night.

  Trying not to check the time on my phone for the millionth time today, I pick up a nearby mallet, which is dangling from a short cable, and smack it on a steel xylophone.

  The notes are marked on the keys, like it’s an eight-year-old’s piano, and after a couple of leisurely whacks, I find myself tapping out the tune to “Oh Susanna,” the one I learned how to play on a plastic recorder in sixth-grade music class.

  “Wow, gorgeous and musically talented. How did I ever get so lucky?”

  I spin around, dropping the mallet. It bangs against the keys, then clatters against the iron railing surrounding the rain garden. “You’re late,” I say, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Sorry. Traffic was a little rough. But I promise we haven’t missed the movie.”

  “Oh,” I say, because I didn’t even know we were seeing a movie. This really is a date date.

  As I scramble to say something else, something intelligent or witty or just something, Malik grabs my hand, leading me away from the clattering and chiming of the rain garden.

  “I thought we could go for an action flick, if you’re up for it,” he says as we approach the staircase that will lead us to the second floor of the outdoor shopping center. “Or you can pick something else.”

  “No, that sounds perfect,” I say, squeezing his hand. It’s still . . . surreal to be with him right now. On an official, let’s-go-see-a-movie kind of date. Maybe I’m the sort of girl who stars in romantic movies after all.

  “Great.”

  We cross the walkway and arrive at a theater. But Malik doesn’t stop at the box office to buy tickets. Instead, he just walks right past it and leads me through a set of double doors.

  Inside, there’s a line of patrons and a guy in a black vest standing at a big wooden podium. Malik just steps around the line, tugging me past vest-guy.

  The guy nods, as if he’s expecting us, and lets us pass without flashing any tickets. Is this how it works when you’re rich or famous or something? People just . . . let you walk into a movie theater and no one expects you to pay?

  I mean, I always heard that saying about how once you’re rich enough to pay for things, people want to give them to you for free. But I thought that applied to, like, Versace gowns for the VMAs or something.

  Malik speed-walks through the lobby, passing by the popcorn and soda and everything else. But I don’t tug him to a stop, despite my sudden and earth-shattering need for buttery, salty popcorn. He’s a man on a mission, and I’m not sure where the sense of urgency is coming from. Maybe he doesn’t want to be recognized. Or maybe he just doesn’t like movie theater popcorn. Which would be his one tragic flaw, and this whole relationship is doomed from the start, because I don’t know if I can be with a boy who doesn’t like movie theater popcorn.

  We round a corner, where a pair of double doors are
propped open, and a fresh wave of buttery aroma greets me. It’s only when he pulls me inside, and two vested workers close the doors behind us, that I know why.

  There is a snack station set up on a rolling red cart inside the theater. Two tubs of popcorn, stacks of candy boxes, bottles of soda . . . It’s like a diabetic coma. Except I’ve never seen a snack station like this, inside the actual theater. And I don’t see the point if it’s got only two tubs of popcorn. It’s really only enough for a few people.

  And then it hits me and I feel like an idiot. “Is this . . .”

  “For us,” he says.

  I turn back to him, looking over his shoulder and realizing the entire theater is empty.

  “Um, like . . . everything?”

  “Yes. We have the theater to ourselves this evening.”

  Stunned, I simply stare, Holy crap running through my head over and over. “You . . . you rented out the whole theater?”

  “Sort of,” he says, enjoying my shock. “I called in a favor.”

  “What kind of a favor?”

  He laughs. “A few weeks ago, I helped a board member’s wife with the publicity for a charity 5K. She owns the theater.”

  “Oh.” I glance around, still having trouble processing. “And this is really all just for the two of us?”

  “Yes.” His grin widens, turns almost smug. He’s clearly enjoying my reaction—that I’m reeling from his reveal.

  “We’ll start the movie momentarily,” one of the workers cuts in. “Skipping the previews, as you’ve requested, of course.”

  “No,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “No?” Malik raises a brow. “You want to see them?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I like the previews. I always pick out one movie I’m going to come back and see. My friend Alex and I always make a pact.”

  “Oh.” He turns to the vested guy. “Um, yes, please play the previews.”

  “Okay, then,” the guy says. “I’ll get it set up. Please sit anywhere you’d like.”

  And then the workers step away and it’s just me and Malik in the not-yet-dark theater.

  “I can’t believe you don’t like the previews,” I say, turning to the snack cart and surveying the options. “I bet you like to sit in the way back, too.”

  “Is that frowned upon?”

  “Everyone knows the middle of the theater is best,” I say, reaching for a box of Mike and Ikes and a tub of popcorn. “Middle row, middle seat.”

  “Lucky for you, you can have any seat you want,” he says, grabbing a box of M&Ms.

  He follows me down the aisle until I pause, glancing back and forth to be sure it’s the exact middle row. When I’m satisfied, I walk down, stopping in the middle to count the seats on either side. Then I shift down one more spot and plunk myself into the most perfectly centered seat in the whole room.

  The lights go down the moment I sit, as if someone upstairs has been anticipating this very moment, and the surreality of it hits me all over again.

  I’m in an actual movie theater, but it’s a private date.

  The screen lights up, and Malik wraps his arm around my shoulders. With confidence, though, not like those dorky yawn-and-stretch maneuvers. More like he can’t imagine a scenario in which a girl doesn’t melt into his embrace.

  Which isn’t so far from the truth. I lean into him, resting my head back a bit and inhaling that same cinnamon scent I’d noticed the first day we met. I’m not sure if it’s his cologne or his shampoo or what, but I hope he never changes it.

  “So, you like shopping for movies from the previews, huh?”

  “It’s a rule Alex and I have. She’s been my best friend since forever. We always pick the next movie we’ll see together that way. For everything else, we wait for it to come out for download and we watch them at her house.”

  “Oh. Does this mean I’ve completely thrown off your system?”

  I grin, glancing up at him as the first preview rolls, something exploding on screen. “I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

  Two and a half hours later, I pull into the parking garage at Sunrise House, my car coughing and sputtering to a stop.

  I wonder if Malik thought I was a total weirdo for insisting I needed to shop for a new fleece jacket at the mall at nine p.m. and that he absolutely, positively could not go with me.

  It’s just . . . until our date was over, it hadn’t occurred to me he’d try to walk me to the car. So instead of saying good-bye in the parking lot, he hugged me good-bye under the glowing neon of a shop sign. I think he knew something was off, but he couldn’t quite call me out on it.

  I put my car in park and pick up my phone, hitting Alex’s number on speed dial.

  It rings four times and goes to voice mail.

  “Ugh,” I say, climbing out of my car and dialing again. She has to be at home. I need to tell her about tonight. She’s never far from her phone. I hit Call again, pressing the phone to my ear as I leave my car behind, not bothering to lock it. It’s the worst car in this whole place.

  “Hello?” she asks on the third ring.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “I know, silly,” she says.

  “Oh. Right,” I say. “Sorry. I’m a little all over the place right now.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Um, I went on a date with Malik today. A real one.”

  “Seriously?” Her voice brightens.

  “Yeah. I called you hours ago so you could give me some advice . . . but you haven’t been picking up.”

  “Oh, gosh, sorry, Holls. My phone was dead for a while. Couldn’t find the charger.”

  Lies. It would’ve gone straight to voice mail if it was shut off. I pause, processing that Alex clearly not only didn’t want to pick up the phone but also is willing to lie about it, and try to ignore the painful twist in my stomach.

  “So . . . how’d the date go?”

  I blink, remembering why I’d wanted to talk to her in the first place. I’ll worry about why she’s been avoiding me later.

  “Um, so, it was pretty good,” I say, but it comes out hesitant.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I chew on my lip, staying silent as I slide my badge against the readers at the door between the parking garage and the back hallway. There’s a solid thunk as the doors unlock.

  “Holly?”

  “He rented out an entire theater,” I say in a rush. “Well, I mean, I don’t think he paid for it—he knows someone, or something, and so they let us have the whole theater to ourselves. And I think we had, like, three dedicated workers just to replenish the little snack cart they brought in. I probably consumed ten thousand calories by the end of the date.”

  “Whoa, really?”

  “Yeah. It was so nuts. Like, I got up to use the restroom halfway through, and they freaking paused the movie for me.”

  “Holy smokes, that is the most amazing date I have ever heard of.” There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Wait a sec, you don’t sound that excited. Did you not like it?”

  I chew on my lip as I walk past the bakery and restaurants and pause outside of the theater. I don’t know . . . Did I not like it? “It was just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Extravagant,” I said. “It seemed really over the top, and it just got me thinking about how different we are. I mean, where do we even go from here?”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t think it was that big of a deal,” she says. “He’s trying to impress you.”

  “I know, but I almost . . .” I pause. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “I kind of wish he didn’t.”

  “You don’t want to be impressed?”

  “Not like that,” I say, looking up at the big chandelier outside of the theater. It’s at least six feet tall, all ornate, curling brass. “It just has me feeling like my head is spinning.”

  “I can’t believe you’re complaining about this.”

  I rub a hand over my face.
“Do you think I’m being ungrateful?”

  “A little,” she says. In the background, I can hear a voice. And then she clearly covers the mouthpiece, saying something muffled.

  I blink. “Are you with someone?”

  “Just Rena.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward. “Uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt . . . whatever you guys are doing.”

  “No big,” she says. “But I gotta get going. Sleep on it, and I bet you’ll get over the shock and realize how awesome the date was.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I mean, I can’t even believe he did that, and it wasn’t for me. So you just need to . . . adjust . . . or something.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, trying to decide what it is about the date that has me so flummoxed.

  And then I realize it’s not the date at all, but Malik.

  It’s the easy way he strolled in like he owned the place . . . the way they knew to skip the previews, the way he casually waved his hand to signal pause the movie and they did so in seconds. . . .

  Like this date was nothing to him, just a blip on the radar.

  If life is really that simple to him . . .

  Then maybe I’m nothing, too. Just a tiny little blip. One he’ll leave behind on a search for bigger and better things.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A few days later, I’m standing at the edge of the lake, my toes dipped in the gleaming blue water of Lake Washington. I’m dreaming up an alternate world, where I’m wearing Prada and Gucci and I’m standing beside Malik on a red carpet. And his is not the only name the photographers are calling out—they care who I am too.

  The lake splashes up around my ankles as a gentle wave rolls in, caused by a passing yacht.

  I wonder if Malik has a yacht. He probably does, and it’s tied up back at Mr. Buchannan’s lakefront mansion.

  There are some yachts here, too. Sunrise House has a private marina, barely a hundred feet away from where I stand. There are only a half dozen slips, but some of the residents have boats moored there as part of their lease or whatever. My mom has been trying out all this ridiculous boat lingo so that she won’t look like an idiot if she tries to use the moorage as a selling point to a potential new tenant.