Page 38 of Eye Candy

“Good, great.”

We were silent for a moment, then she remembered the plant. “This is for you!” She pressed it into my hands. “It’s a peace lily. It needs watering once a—well, it depends on where you put it.” Ananxious look stole over her face. “They don’t like the cold. And don’t put it anywhere too dry, they prefer a humid environment. If you want, I can find a place for it?”

“Uh, sure.”

Looking relieved, she bustled into the apartment and down my hallway, looking for places for her plant.

When my buzzer rang again, hope gripped my chest.

Her voice through my intercom confirmed, “It’s Teddy.”

The feeling that flooded me at hearing her voice and her fake name was hard to identify. It was a cocktail of many things.

“And Lyssa Luxe,” said an unfamiliar voice. “That’s at L-Y-S-S-A underscore L-U-X-E on all platforms!”

“Come on up.”

She’d come, even though it was probably risky for her.

She’d come, because I’d asked her to.

I couldn’t name that feeling either.

CAROLINE

Lyssaand I sat on the stools at the kitchen counter and watched Chase. Well, I watched Chase. She was taking videos of herself with the cocktail the bartender had made: a lavender elixir with a bubble on top that exploded into smoke when you touched it. It was an apt metaphor for my life right now, but I wasn’t dwelling on that because despite the fact that I was here in all the Teddy trappings, including my itchy wig, I was here for Chase.

Who said he’dlikeme here.

It was clear he was an uneasy host. He kept darting around the room offering people coasters and asking if they were having a good time. He’d asked each person that at least three times. He was dressed in what I assumed he thought was casual: the samebrown sweater as always, crisp slacks, a starched white button-down, and his gold-framed glasses. Absently, I wondered how his lenses never had fingerprints on them. If I wore glasses, I’d be accidentally fingering them all the time.

Chase must be very deliberate about his fingering. It was a shame I didn’t have firsthand—firstfinger—knowledge on the topic.

Finally, he came into the kitchen.

“Hosting is very stressful,” he said, his eyes slightly wild. “Is it always stressful?”

“You’re doing great,” I soothed. “Look. People have drinks, they’re talking. Those are signs of a good party.”

He nodded, “Yes, four and five.”

“What?”

“I made a— never mind.” He looked at me properly, at last. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Well, you said please. That’s the magic word.”

I was a professional sexy-person, and I turned into a goofy simp around this man. It was heinously embarrassing.

I kept talking, figuring it couldn’t get worse. “Your apartment is really nice.”

His upper-floor building had a prime view of the city with all the skyscrapers lit up like urban Christmas trees. His furnishings were eclectic: a crocheted ottoman, mismatched pendant lights, and bookshelves that looked like upcycled crates. If it wasn’t for how well everything fit together, which suggested a professional designer’s involvement, and the million-dollar view, it might have been possible to forget just how rich he was.

“You like it?”

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