I’m hoping that my appearance on screen tonight, just for Nick, will be more compelling.

To that end, I have carefully hand-laundered my black lace bra and thong from yesterday, and the dark grey thigh highs. I dried everything with the hotel hairdryer, which wasn’t easy because it’s one of those little ones mounted to the wall. These are not my absolute dead-sexiest pieces, but when I put them on yesterday morning, I wasn’t planning on an audience. Still, they’re La Perla. Nothing to be shy about.

Which is good, because tonight is not about shy.

I put my silk shirt from yesterday over the bra, leaving it half unbuttoned. Black heels. My hair is pinned up, makeup perfect, with red lipstick. It’s not like I had anything else to do this afternoon. Plenty of perfume—he can’t smell it, of course, but I can. After all, this is a date. I turn the lights on, but low, and set tonight’s martini—dry, with a twist—next to my computer.

At 11:04, my phone rings, and I answer on the laptop. There he is, looking incredibly handsome. I love when he wears his glasses.

“Hey there.” He looks a little more worn than usual. I hide a grin. Mr. “It’ll Be Easy” is getting a refresher course in infants.

“Hey. Are you okay? Looks like you might get home tomorrow, snow’s letting up.”

“Thank god! What’s happening there? Is Holly asleep? Are you exhausted?”

“She’s asleep. The girls were here all evening playing with her. They just went into their rooms with their phones. It’s so quiet.”

“Oh, that’s good. That means you can concentrate. Focus.” I adjust the camera angle, moving it just a bit lower.

“Oh my,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

I take a sip of my drink. I move the camera lower. I say nothing.

I unbutton my shirt. Slowly. One by one.

Nick laughs quietly, a low sound of appreciation. “Even your pixels are gorgeous,” he says.

I push open my shirt and slide my fingers under the lace of my bra, massaging. My head tips back.

And in a moment, I stand. Every movement is slow. There’s no hurry.

Now he can see my thong, the lace tops of my stockings.

I turn my back to the camera, hook my fingers under my thong, and slide it down. Slowly.

And then I turn back.

And I hear him—at a distance of two hundred miles—draw in his breath. I watch his face intently. Lifting one high heel onto the edge of the chair, I lick a manicured finger, and touch myself where I am yearning for his touch.

“Chloe...oh, my...”

I reach to the keyboard to increase the volume, wanting to hear his every sound. His excitement feeds mine.

And the screen goes black.

Shitshitshit!

What did I do? How do I undo whatever I did, right now? Where the hell is tech services when you really need them?

Frantically, I restart the computer, wait, enter my password, wait, reopen Facetime. The mood is evaporating with each lost second. I type Nick’s number into the box, as I try to compose myself and recreate the hot scene I just disconnected. I stand, face the camera, position myself, take a deep breath.

And there on the screen is the devastatingly handsome face of…

Henry.

I shriek. He shrieks.

Jemma walks up behind him and shrieks.

We shriek in surround sound.

I sit down, fast.

“Chloe, what the fuck?” I didn’t know Henry’s voice could hit that register.

“I was calling Nick! I don’t know what happened!”

“Henry, go in the other room,” Jemma orders. “Chloe, what the hell?”

“I don’t know! I was Facetiming with Nick, and my computer shut down, and I was calling him back! Why are you online, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at the wedding?”

“I broke the heel on my shoe dancing. We just came back to the room so I could get another pair. When did you get a full Brazilian?”

“Oh my god. Can we talk about this another time? I need to call Nick back. Is Henry going to be okay?”

“Are you kidding? In his line of work? Henry actually does know how to unsee things,” Jemma says, clearly annoyed, but if she’s making jokes, I know it’ll be okay.

“I am so, so sorry!”

“All good, honey.” She sighs. “But I am clearly going to have to up my game here.”

Nick

I haven’t gotten that hard that fast since high school.

And now Chloe’s gone.

What did I just see, and how can I see more of it?

I fiddle with my laptop keyboard, taking two seconds to readjust myself. It’s late, Holly’s asleep, and I’m in sweats.

Which means I can’t stand up and go out into my own damn living room for a few minutes.

Laughter fills my chest, though I repress it. Don’t want to wake the baby or draw attention to myself. Last thing I need is one of my kids coming in here when Chloe comes back on screen.

She is coming back on screen, right?

Coming… on screen… please...

Silence. One minute. Two. Three. The image of that lusciously hot position of hers, the wanton abandon, fills me with --

Damn it.

Hard again.

Bzzz.

My phone’s on the edge of the desk and the vibration is just enough to put it over the edge.

Like me, in a moment.

I bend down, wincing, but grab it.

A text from Chloe.

Sorry about that.

Nothing 2B sorry about, I text back quickly. I’m desperate to have her come back on screen.

So desperate I’m using txtspeak.

I am so embarrassed, she replies.

Facetime with me, I urge.

Can’t. I clicked over from you accidentally and, she texts.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Two minutes of silence.

I call her on Facetime. She doesn’t pick up.

Sorry. I accidentally called Henry instead of you and he got a show, she finally explains.

I stare at the screen, jaw on my desk.

U wat? I text back.

OMG is this one of Nick’s kids? she replies.

No. Sorry. I’m so shocked I reverted to txtspeak, I answer, jaw grinding. Henry? I add.

Yes. Sorry.

Make it up to me by going on Facetime again. In that exact same position, I reply, resisting the urge to add, That’s an order.

Terrified. Mood gone, she answers.