“Continue,” I snap.
“I’ll be interviewing you, your two sisters, Lily’s boyfriend and his brother.” 6 people + 6 months + 3 cameramen + 1 reality show = infinite drama. I’ve done the math.
Scott will be conducting the interviews though… I internally gag. “You’re forgetting my boyfriend,” I say. “He’s a part of the show too.”
“Oh right.”
“Don’t act like you forgot, Scott. You just said you were practicing honesty, and now, well, you’re a bit of a liar.”
He ignores my slight. “Every episode will be aired one week after we’ve filmed. The premiere will be in February, but we’re filming ASAP. Like I mentioned over the phone, we’re trying to make this show as real-time as possible. It’s been six months since it was publicized that your sister is a sex addict. We need to capitalize off that buzz as quickly as we can.”
“You and every other person with a camera,” I say. There’s always at least two chubby males stationed outside my gated house with lenses pointed at us. Lily jokes that they’re probably hanging around waiting for her to give them blow jobs. I would be more amused if I didn’t see the mail that perverts send her, most accompanied with pictures of their hairy genitals—it’s a sick fan club. I sift through her letters before I hand them to her now.
“And lastly,” Scott says, “you have no control over how you’re edited. That’s my call.”
I have about as much power over the reality show as I do paparazzi’s snap-quick photos.
I can try to act like a non-bitchy, non-argumentative angel on film, and Lily can try to be a virginal saint. But at the end of the day, the cameras will catch us. Flaws and all. And there’s no forcing something different. That was the stipulation that all my friends and sisters agreed to.
To do the show, we’re not pretending to be someone else.
And I would never ask that of them.
We’re rolling the dice on this one. People may hate us. They already call Lily a whore on gossip blogs. But in the small chance that people grow to love us—my company may be saved. I just need good publicity so that a retailer has a reason to stock my clothing line again.
And maybe Fizzle won’t be so bruised by Lily’s impropriety too. Maybe my father’s soda company will rise in stocks rather than fall.
That’s the hope.
“Are you okay with this?” Scott questions.
“I don’t know why you ask. I signed the contract. I have to be okay with it or else you’ll take me to court.”
He lets out a short laugh and scans my body for the third time. “I can’t imagine your boyfriend knows what to do with you.”
“Because you’ve never met him.”
“I’ve spoken to him. He sounds malleable.” He taps his pen. “If I told him to drop on his knees and suck my cock, I think he would.”
My nostrils flare. I am fuming. “You think that.” I stand. “And when he stabs you in the fucking front, I’ll be the one smiling by his side.”
Scott grins at this. “Challenge accepted.”
Stupid intellectual pricks.
Funny thing is, I’m dating one.
So while I’m stuck in this moronic cock fight, I know I’m partially to blame.
I knew I should have lowered my standards—dated a guy who rides around on his skateboard with his shirt inside-out. I grimace. Just kidding. I’ll take my suit-and-tie boyfriend. I’ll take the high IQ and the rapid-fire banter. I just hope Scott’s eagerness to unsettle him won’t disrupt the reality show.
But if I know anything, it’s this:
My boyfriend loves winning.
And he hates to lose even more.
CHAPTER 2
ROSE CALLOWAY
I juggle a box of old invoices and a bag of salads and chicken primavera that’s hooked on my arm, searching for my keys in my clutch. My phone occupies one palm, and I struggle to maintain perfect balance on my wrap-around porch, teetering in a pair of four-inch booties.
I live in a college town: Princeton, New Jersey. And my gated colonial house has acres of sprawling green lands, black shutters, and winter flowers. But right now, I can’t take pleasure in the serene atmosphere.
A lens gleams to my left, filming. The camera guy is roughly around my age, wiry and lanky. In two days, Ben has talked as much as his other two cohorts, which is not much at all. They just shoot.
His sole presence distracts my juggling act.
And red sauce leaks from the white plastic bag, missing my pea coat and dribbling on my romper. I flail in distress, trying to maintain a morsel of grace, but my box of invoices starts to tilt off me.
And then, all of a sudden, the cardboard is plucked right from my arms, and I am left in an awkward, hunched over position, avoiding the trickling plastic bag like it’s the source of the bubonic plague.
I glance over my shoulder and meet Connor’s eyes. And I trace his features quickly: his thick, wavy brown hair, his fair skin and pink lips, striking blue eyes and a conceited smile that somehow never gets him in trouble. He wears confidence like his most expensive suit, with style and dignity and so much charm. I immediately want to combat him, to match him smile for smile, grin for grin, word for word. But right now, that conceited look does not lessen my misery.
Although, I am overly grateful that my invoices weren’t scattered along the porch. My profit margin is embarrassing, and I’d rather Connor not catch a glimpse of the numbers.
“Are you auditioning to play Quasimodo?” he quips.
I flash a dry smile. “Very funny.”
“Give that here.” He gestures with his fingers to pass the food.
“I have it,” I say. “The damage is already done.” My romper will need to soak in spot-remover for an hour.
Still, he leans over and unlocks the door with his key. I don’t know why this rouses me. Maybe the fact that he has a key at all. That he lives with me. I still can’t believe our relationship has moved to that level. Especially since I have yet to fully comprehend Connor Cobalt, and we’ve been dating for over a year.
He’s the hardest person to understand because he makes it so.
But I would never admit that to Scott Van Wright.
I should be glad that my boyfriend has saved the day by grabbing my things, but the fact that I ruined it makes me feel unraveled, as though my hair is frizzy, my lipstick smudged, my dress crooked—oh, well it is stained, so there’s that. And my mouth flies open before I can shut it. “You’re good at that.”
His brow arches, seeing exactly where I’m going. “Of sticking my key into a hole.” His hand drifts to the crook of my hip.
“I said nothing about your keyhole,” I retort.
“No, I believe you were about to comment on your keyhole and my key.”
“If you’re trying to frazzle me with sexual idioms, it’s not going to work.”
“I didn’t think it would, seeing as how you were the one about to mention keyholes in the first place.” It’s as though he can read my mind. We think alike on too many occasions. “You’ve been spending too much time around your sister,” he adds, smiling as he says it.
I suppose he’s right. Lily would have been quick to make that assessment. Keys. Holes. Sex. That’s where her mind travels. I would like to say mine doesn’t go there on occasion, but I’m only human.