Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
CAROLINE
Chase didn’t sit next to me on the bed, as I’d expected from a man who’d fingerbanged me within an inch of my life.
Instead, prim and proper Mr. Moral dragged an armchair from the corner of the room and settled facing me.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked. “Is your tea OK?”
“Despite your lack of a jug, it’s great.” Untrue. It was fine at best. “Thank you.”
His brow wrinkled. “What do you mean a jug? Like a pitcher?”
“No, like a kettle. An electric one. Even a stovetop one would work. I hate to break it to you Chase, but heating water in the microwave is prehistoric.”
“Noted.” Then he asked, “Where’s the real Teddy?”
“I’m told she’s in Germany somewhere. Living her best off-grid life.”
“Do you regret it?”
I pretended to misunderstand. “Letting you finger me? No. And I hope you don’t either.” I said it flippantly, but I meant it. When I was nothing more than a memory to him, I wanted to be the fondest one in the spank bank.
“Of course not. Tell me Caroline, where are you from? I can’t place your accent.”
I’d let myself relax with him. He knew I wasn’t a New Yorker, and my natural accent was Frankenstein’s monster anyway. Being from a remote island and touring cities all around the world, I had to modify the way I spoke to be understood. Over the years, a strange mix had cemented: it was a bit British, a bit American, and a bit Australian. The blend worked fine in most countries, and whenever I went back home I only had to hear another Kiwi talk for my childhood accent to come back. This was very lucky, because my brother would rip the shit out of me (Kiwi-speak for tease mercilessly) if it didn’t.
“I’m from Woodville,” I answered.
“Where is that?”
“Exactly.”
Chase made a noise. It was impossible not to be charmed by the little sounds that erupted from his chest whenever he thought I was being a brat.
“It’s in Aotearoa.”
Two lines appeared between his brows.
“Aotearoa New Zealand. Aotearoa is the te reo Māori name for my country. It means land of the long white cloud. Pretty, huh? If you’re done with your tea, I can take your mug?—”
He held it out of my reach. “I have more questions.”
This was it. He was going to ask why I’d lied about being Teddy.
“How old are you?” he asked instead. “You’re older than Joe and Teddy. But I don’t think older than me. I’m thirty-four.”
Relief dropped my shoulders. “I’m twenty-nine. A Leo.” I yawned and stretched, extending my spine with a few tiny pops. “And Scorpio moon. What’s your star sign, Chase?”
He ignored that. I thought he might. Chase was definitely the kind of guy who thought star signs were silly, and if I had the luxury of time, I would love to tease him about this until he cracked and let me do his full star chart.
“Are you tired?” he asked. “We can finish this tomorrow.”
“I’m fine. I like late nights.” I hesitated for a second and then decided to give him as much honesty as I could. Safe honesty. Nothing about Gerard or being a broke bitch, but everything about who I was. “I’m a burlesque artist. I often work nights and sleep days. I’ve been trying to keep more human hours while I’ve been, uh…” I looked down, “taking a break. But old habits die hard.”
“Did you do burlesque inWoodville?”
I laughed. “No. And if you knew Woodville, you’d know what a good joke you just made.”
“What did you do there?”
“I worked in my dad’s café. Every day started at five.” I made a face to show how I felt about that.
“Did your whole family work there?”
“My dad and my younger brother, Mike, yes. And one of my cousins, Tessa, lived with us most summers when we were younger.”
“Are you and Mike close?”
“As close as possible, considering we’re nothing alike.”
“Because your brother doesn’t do burlesque?” Chase asked. “Or because he doesn’t impersonate heiresses?”
I blinked.
A smile was playing at the corner of his mouth. It was interesting that he felt ready to joke about it. I wasn’t.
“Put it this way,” I sighed, “when Mike and I were in school, Dad always made us sandwiches for lunch. Luncheon for me, Marmite for Mike—we’re a Marmite family. That might not make sense to you, but it’s like your Twizzlers and Red Vines. Anyway, sometimes Dad included Post-it notes with our lunch. For me he wrote things like, ‘ Go hard in maths, Bucket! ’ or ‘ Have a good rehearsal !’ For Mike, it was, ‘ please don’t punch Mr. Wilson again ’.”
“I see,” Chase said. I wondered if he did, if he could possibly understand my childhood. “Sounds like you two are chalk and… luncheon sandwiches.” He made a face. “What is that? Is it a Kiwi delicacy?”
“Only if you don’t have a lot of money. You call it …” I rooted around my mind for the equivalent. “Bologna? Sometimes people call it baloney, but I’m talking about the thick stuff, not the plain ham.”
“Oh.”
I smiled and waved a hand, wanting to alleviate his guilt. “We didn’t have it bad. We had everything we needed. Lower middle-class, I guess. Dad worked hard to stretch a buck, and as kids, we didn’t notice. Or care. All of the kids at my school were the same; that’s what those small rural towns were like. Things in Woodville are a bit different these days, as more people with money have moved out from the cities. I left Woodville when I was eighteen and moved to the capital of New Zealand to hone my burlesque skills at a studio there. After that, I moved from country to country, chasing gigs. Melbourne. Edinburgh. Eventually I worked my way here—New York was always endgame for me. I imagined having slots at all the best bars and billings on all the best tours. The dream was to get big enough to have my own studio and offer scholarships to performers from small island nations.”
Chase leaned his chin in his hand. “What will you call your studio?”
“I don’t know.” My smile fell.
Even if I could keep Gerard from learning about things between Chase and I, working for him at the Dragonfly Den now seemed like staying way too close to this deception. My best hope was probably to get a reference from Gerard and try my luck in another city. Maybe Vegas. It would mean starting again, but at least this time I’d have a connection to give me a leg up.
But I hadn’t figured out the details yet. I hadn’t figured anything out.
Chase was looking at me, waiting for an explanation.
How could I tell him he was my spanner in the works ?
Or rather, the way I felt about him was.
“I’ve always been a kid who dreamed big,” I said slowly. “Every afternoon when I wiped down tables and refilled salt shakers at Café Levitate, I imagined my end-of-day routine was taking off my makeup, packing up all my costumes, stretching, and taking the subway home. But I’ve been trying for ten years. I’m good at what I do, and I’ve had some breaks, but none of them were the big one. Now I’m starting to realize I’m just not the kind of person who gets to live their dreams. I thought I was, I thought I could make it happen if I just worked harder, pushed more, slept less, but now I understand all that stuff is predetermined. Nothing I do will change the fact I’m just not that bitch . I’m not destined to be a star.”
Chase was quiet for a moment. If he gave me an advice-column response I would scream.
Instead, he said, “It sounds like you’ve had a difficult time.”
I smiled my Summer Smile. But as Chase looked at me, those beautiful eyes waiting for a real answer, the mask of polite resilience cracked and my vision blurred.
“Burlesque was— is —everything to me. Failing feels like every sacrifice I’ve made was a waste. Every morning I didn’t sleep in because I had rehearsal. Every date I didn’t go on because I had a gig. Every blister, every burn, every bad gig. Wasted, wasted, wasted.”
Wordlessly, Chase reached out and took my mug from my hands.
My floodgates were open now, loosened by a listening ear, and I couldn’t shut up.
“I’m far away from my family because I couldn’t do burlesque there, and I feel endlessly guilty about that. I don’t own property, or even live in an apartment by myself because you need savings for that. I don’t even have a pet—and I always wanted a bunny to buy novelty collars for—because you need to work regular hours to feed one. But I told myself all of that was OK because I was working toward something better. Shinier. I was going to be a star. And now... I’m not.” I sniffed. “It’s just hard to reconcile.”
“You’re grieving.”
“Yes! Exactly. Grieving. And I’m not just grieving my dreams, it’s grieving the version of me that was living them, you know? That’s harder to let go of. Successful Caroline was lively and fun. You would have liked her.”
“I like scam artist Caroline.”
I scoffed. No one was attracted to failure. Especially not someone like Chase. The only reason rich men dated fixer uppers was because they wanted someone indebted enough to them to overlook their bullshit. I’d seen it a million times with guys who came to clubs.
“Is the inquisition over now?”
“I have more questions, but they can wait until tomorrow.” Chase took his first sip of tea and coughed violently.
Despite myself, I laughed at his expression.
“This isn’t what I expected.”
“Chamomile never is. You need Yorkshire tea. And an electric j?—”
“Electric jug,” he finished. “Got it. We should get some sleep; it’s late. If you’d feel more comfortable in a guest room, I can show you down the hall.” He began to blush that way I liked. “Or you can stay here. With me. But just so you know, you have options. I’m not trying to coerce you?—”
“Chase. What do you want.”
“I, uh—” he stopped. “I want you in my bed.”
“Great, me too.”
“Great.”
“But it’s too early for me to be able to sleep. I hate going to bed when I’m not tired.” I was bratting, hoping he might finally let me wrap my hands around the impressive erection he’d denied me earlier. But his eyes narrowed, looking at the tears on my cheeks.
“Then we can cuddle until you do feel tired.” He climbed onto the bed then and patted the space next to him .
“You want to cuddle?”
“Oh, I love to cuddle. Cuddly Chase, they call me.”
He was such a dork. I liked him enormously.
We lay on the bed, him on his back propped against the pillows, me curled into his side with my head on his chest. We traded questions like we were on a first date, as if we’d been set up by friends or met on a dating app, no scams involved. He learned that my favorite color was pink, that I could only do a tap step with my right foot, and that my preferred karaoke song was Toxic. I learned his Dungeons and Dragons character was a cleric (although it took another six questions until I understood what that meant), cilantro tasted like soap to him whereas I put it on everything, and when he was fourteen, he’d broken his arm tripping in Times Square while trying to race Joe through tourists. He didn’t have a karaoke song, so of course I was determined to find one for him.
Hours before I usually thought about going to bed, I fell asleep in his arms.
When daylight forced its way through the cracks of my eyes, I was lying on my stomach, one cheek smushed into a too-hard pillow and my arm pinned underneath me. Did I go to sleep without taking off my mascara? Horrified, I pushed myself up and the pillow grunted. I’d been getting my panda eyes all over Chase Sanford’s chest! He’d let me use him as a full-body cushion and mascara absorber.
I blinked up at Chase’s sleeping face. One of the arms of his glasses was squished awkwardly between his cheek and the pillow, making the wire frames stick up two inches higher than usual. He still wore the fluffy robe, but his bare legs were tangled with mine and I could feel their blanket of hair. It was nice. In the warm glow of morning light, the hair at the V of his chest had a ginger cast. I’d never imagined waking up in such a beautiful apartment after having the best non–self-administered orgasm of my life.
Chase groaned, eyelids fluttering.
“Good morning!” I said brightly, quickly.
He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Morning, Floss. What time is it?”
I had no idea where my phone was. I peered at the clock he had on the side table. “Seven.”
Lucky for me Lyssa never woke before lunch unless I physically shook her.
Chase sat up. “I never sleep this late.”
“Late? This isn’t late, this is offensively early.”
He smiled ruefully and settled his glasses back over his nose. “Do you want a cup of tea?” he asked. “I can run out?—”
We were interrupted by a loud knock on the door and a familiar voice calling my name. Neither of us had time to adjust anything, because Lyssa was barging into the room with one hand thrown over her eyes.
“Lyssa!”
“Sorry, but this is important! Promise I’m not looking.”
“Boundaries, Lyssa!”
“It’s fine, I don’t mind.”
It didn’t occur to her I meant mine.
“I have big news,” she continued. “Last night Jack Cowell—you know, @jaccattacklives?—slid into my DMs with a collab idea. He saw my photo with Greta Winters last night, and it’s going to grow me ten thousand followers, maybe even twenty.”
Lyssa was wearing the same outfit as yesterday—a headband made out of a dozen pink bows she’d crocheted herself, and two parts of a three-piece suit. The effect was strange, but on her, it worked. It always worked.
“Good morning,” said Chase, getting to his feet quickly. From the odd way he leaned, my weight in the night had made one of his legs go numb. He could have moved me once I was asleep, but he hadn’t. My heart flipped. “Sorry I’m not”—he swept his palm over his robe and all that delicious golden chest hair—“decent. You must be hungry, both of you. I have bagels. Do you like bagels? They’re from Zucker’s.”
“Yes,” Lyssa and I answered in unison.
“Would you like them with salmon or avocado?”
“Yes,” we said.
“You want both?”
“Yes.”
He grinned. “Coming up.” Then he awkwardly sidestepped Lyssa in the doorway—normies were so uncomfortable with nudity! Even partial nudity!—and disappeared into his kitchen.
Lyssa, her blue eyes like saucers, leaped onto the soft mattress, bouncing on her knees. “Caroline! The rich hottie likes you!”
“Who, you?” I pretended to misunderstand. “I already knew that.”
She pushed me playfully. “Stop. My mom has money, but not Sanford Group kind of money. And Chase is cute. I went through all his drawers when you were helping the puking Hulk, and I didn’t find anything alarming. No molars on a necklace that might have belonged to an ex, or biographies written by tech bros. He does have multiple versions of the same sweater in his closet, like a cartoon character, but bad fashion sense isn’t a deal-breaker”—quickly she added—“for you . I’d rather find a tooth necklace than date a guy who thinks caramel cashmere is chic.”
“We’re not dating.”
She snorted. “The professor simp doth protest too much, methinks.” Then she snapped her fingers. “There’s this great floral jacket in the fashion closet where I used to intern that I think would be perfect on Chase. It has navy elbow patches, which I know will do it for you, plus the monochromatic blues will go well with his coloring and bring out those unnerving eyes?—”
“His eyes aren’t unnerving!”
She waved me off. “Unnerving doesn’t mean bad, Caroline. I’m unnerving.” Then she sighed. “I wish I’d taken that jacket before I left. Maybe I can get someone to grab it for me. Dana in the mail room might still be on my side, although I don’t think she has access to the fashion closet… Wait, what am I talking about? Chase is rich; I can just tell him where to shop.” She flopped down next to me on the bed, her hair making a cloud on the pillows. “You know, I never saw myself leaving West Village, but I don’t suppose Mr. Moral will want to move into our place. Bunk beds aren’t sexual-partner friendly. Unless there’s such a thing as three-tier bunk beds?”
“Lyssa—”
“Kidding, kidding, I know we can’t have three-tier bunks. Root Beer is arthritic. But this place is nice, even without bunk beds. Root will like having a terrace.” I couldn’t tell if she was joking or she genuinely planned to move in here. “Is Mr. Moral allergic to cats, do you know? I don’t know if we can live with a man who is allergic to cats.”
“Mr. Mora— Chase and I are not an ongoing thing, Lyssa. This was one and done.”
“Because of the scam?”
“Scam’s dead.”
Lyss looked like she was about to cheer, so I added quickly, “But we still won’t work. I don’t think I can stay in New York. It’s a whole long thing; we’ll talk about it later”—the look on her face was devastating—“I know Lyssa. I know . But I can’t get into it now, not in his apartment, or I’ll cry. Please, I need your help.”
Her expression showed she didn’t like it, but she sighed and asked, “What do you need?”
“Eat bagels with me.”
So, we ate bagels at Chase’s sunny breakfast bar, wrapped in borrowed robes, while he tried to explain Dungeons and Dragons. Last time he played, his team had defeated a hydra, and apparently that was a big deal. Lyssa had lots of follow-up questions, mostly about cosplayers’ costumes, which Chase knew nothing about, but promised to put her in contact with some people. Sunbeams crept over the floor with the cheerful optimism that a Saturday morning in this zip code guaranteed. This was Chelsea, and the only worries in Chelsea were which cashmere sweater to wear, whether to run to Starbucks for coffee or make one on the machine, and if the farmer’s market would have the nice provolone today.
Did it change me to enjoy this? Could a person still be a scrappy showgirl and have bagels in Chelsea? Deep down, I wanted both.
Later, when Lyssa was in Chase’s guest shower, no doubt using as much of every product as she could—the man had fresh eucalyptus hanging in his shower; no wonder Lyss was planning to move in—Chase reached across the counter and laid his hand over mine. I stared at his watch’s pretty gold dials, each one displaying something different. I had no idea what. I knew nothing about watches, but I knew his was expensive.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to ask you?—”
Now he was going to ask why I’d impersonated Teddy. He’d just wanted to ensure my grumbling stomach wouldn’t interrupt his interrogation. Chase was a nurturer, true, but ultimately still a goody-two-shoes.
But again he surprised the hell out of me.
“What are you doing next weekend? Do you want to come to Canada with me?”