He frowns at me. “I thought we decided against that.”
We did. Well, he did. I don’t want to tell him that in my head, I’ve fantasized about accepting their offer, slipping into their beautiful things, playing for Finn and his camera. I just know he’d made me look good; he always does. And we’d get even more followers, both from the nature of the pictures and from Butter Boudoir themselves. Nobody’s ever made me an offer like that. I’ve hardly ever beennoticedlike that, not by anyone but Finn. But I don’t want to ruin our night, so I just say, “I was using them as an example. If we can get a few more thousand followers, offers like that would be standard.” I bring my knees up under my chin. “I think we should try to hit ten by mid-January.”
He returns to his session. “Sounds good to me.”
I swivel back to the inbox. The browser refreshes and bolded e-mails from the past few hours appear. The subject line on top snags my attention.
The stockings
I move closer to the screen. Stockings?Mystockings? The sender’s name is Jack Guthrie. Doesn’t sound familiar.
“Got it,” Finn says as I’m about to click on the e-mail. “I’m just going to run it through an editing app instead of doing the whole thing. It’s almost midnight.”
“You should share it at midnight on the dot.”
“But that’s when I’m supposed to kiss you.” He winks, thumbing around his screen.
“Post it,thenkiss me.”
“Too late.” He shows me the photo, two champagne glasses in the foreground, a trail of my out-of-focus clothing behind them. It’s muted, the sequins as matte as the gold fizz. My lipstick stain is a deep, sultry crimson because of the low-contrast filter. “What do you think?”
It’s the first time he’s ever not asked me for a caption, but when I see why, I smile. He’s turned it into a joke, also a first. “From us to you,” I read. “Make your New Year’s extra special—the poor bastard only comes once a year.”
He hands me my glass and holds out his, but before we can cheers, there’s commotion in the street. People yell out the countdown. “Twenty . . . nineteen . . .”
“Shit.” Finn puts down the champagne and tosses me my underwear. “Come on. We’re going to miss it.”
I look back at the e-mail, my fizzing drink in one hand, a ball of black lace in the other. I have fifteen seconds, which means I either open it or go to Finn. I should do the latter. But if I don’t read it, I’ll be wondering what it says while the ball drops, and that’s no way to bring in the new year, wondering about another man. I click on it.
I can’t stop looking at them. Where are they from so I can buy my girlfriend a pair.
I swallow. He’s just admitted to staring at my crotch. A man named Jack is looking at me, fantasizing. And he has a girlfriend. He has a real live woman, butI’mthe one he’s thinking about. It seems so wrong, and yet . . .
“Halston!” Finn calls. “You’re missing it.”
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
I hit reply.
Intermix on 5th & 19th
In case he thinks I’m Finn, I also sign the e-mail.
—Anonymous.
“Four . . . three . . .”
I hit send and abandon the drink and underwear to sprint into the living room. Horns blare in the street. The TV is a blur of confetti and beaming B-list celebrities with microphones. Finn turns and laughs at me in just my bra. He grabs a cream, faux fur throw we picked out together and opens it to me. “Happy New Year, babe,” he says, wrapping me up and tying me off with a kiss. “So far, it’s turning out to be pretty great.”
I smile against his mouth. “It’s only been five seconds.”
“And isn’t it pretty great?”
I nod. “Extremely. We forgot our drinks.”
He rubs my back. “I’m good.”
“I’ll get mine, then.” I pull out of his embrace and return to the studio. Before I even reach the computer, I see the subject line bolded at the top. It’s 12:01 and Jack already responded.
