But Audrey gave no indication she noticed it. She wasn’t even looking at the screen. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her exquisite body clad in form-fitting exercise clothing. She held a plastic cup in one hand, while the other was digging around in a tub of animal crackers. My face tingled, and I swallowed the lump of saliva-soaked cookie in my mouth. She’s eating animal crackers at this very moment, too. It was a sign. It had to be.

I reached out to touch my screen, tracing a finger along that gorgeous hair that I loved so much, imagining that I was actually twining my fingers through the locks, inhaling the scent of her coconut shampoo. I was so captivated by Audrey’s shimmering aura that I barely glanced at the other woman in the frame. When I finally noticed her, I paused and frowned. What a strange pair these two were. One fire-haired sprite, one awkward dormouse.

And then Audrey looked up and directly at me, her brilliant, jewel-colored eyes staring right through the screen and into the farthest reaches of my aching heart. It swelled within my chest, constricting my lungs, my throat, choking me. I gagged painfully, but oh, what a way to go, asphyxiated by love.

She frowned, and every cell in my body froze. She knew. She knew I was there, staring through the virtual peephole.

“Hmm,” she murmured, looking at the screen. “That’s weird.”

No, no, no. How could I have been so stupid? So goddamn greedy? I’d ruined everything already. If only—

But then, instead of slamming her computer shut or running a spyware program, she took a sip of her drink and shrugged. Turning her face away from the screen, she said, “I really need a new computer. This old thing can’t even open a simple file anymore.”

I exhaled, sagging with relief. My clumsy attempt had been, against all odds, successful. I was in.

CHAPTER THIRTY AUDREY

Three champagne-heavy mimosas deep, I hadn’t been able to take Cat’s plaintive sobbing any longer and had come up with the idea to put both Cat and Connor on the list for the museum’s exclusive preview for The Life and Death of Rosalind Rose. I thought it was inspired. Cat seemed doubtful, but I had finally convinced her that the problem wasn’t that she was some sort of hideous, unlovable troll, as she seemed to believe. Rather, the problem was that Connor had only ever known Cat as a classmate, colleague, and trivia buddy. For him to consider her a potential romantic partner, he needed to see her through a different lens. The preview was the perfect location for that: a little glamorous, a lot out of their comfort zone, and with a built-in topic of conversation.

On the night of the event, as museum members and donors began arriving, I worried I hadn’t properly counseled Cat on what to wear. I wouldn’t put it past her to come straight from work in her usual ink-stained suit and unflattering pumps with their ground-down heels, which would totally defeat the purpose of removing her from her normal environs. I was about to text her some last-minute ideas when she entered the room. I relaxed. She’d traded her frumpy work wear for a pair of slim, cream-colored pants that showed off her long legs and a cadet-blue tunic that matched her eyes. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her lips were painted a subtle rosy hue. Even her fingernails, usually a shade of pale pink so boring I wanted to die, were a punchier rose. She was standing erect, her neck elongated as she looked around the room.