“Can I use your dryer?” he asks, already pulling off his shirt.
Oh my God. I look away, and Lo closes the Cosmo magazine and tosses it at my face so I’ll stop gawking. He stands. “I’ll show you to the machine.”
As Lo passes to the laundry room, Ryke lifts his eyebrows at me like see, he was nice, making progress. Yeah, I’m not so optimistic. Ryke nods to Connor. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going,” he says.
At this, Ryke follows Lo out of view.
Connor scrolls on his iPhone, my mind drifting to what happened with my sister. “About Rose…”
“Yes?”
“I like you, Connor. I do, but I also know you’re a social climber. I may look small and not put up much of a fight when it comes to words, but I’d find a way to hurt you if you hurt her. She should mean more to a guy than a paycheck and a last name.”
Connor pockets his cell. “Lily,” he says. “If I wanted to date for a last name, I’d have a girl on my arm every single day. I would never be single.” He leans forward. “I promise you, that my intentions are pure. And I think it’s sweet you’re looking out for Rose, but she’s more than capable of taking care of herself, which is one of the many reasons why I want to pursue her.”
“What’s another reason?” I test him.
He smiles. “I won’t have to taxingly explain to her menu items in a real French restaurant.” He knows she’s fluent? “I won’t have to explain financial statements or dividends. I’ll be able to discuss anything and everything in the world, and she’ll have an answer.”
“What about your philosophy on wealthy girls? Aren’t we all the same? We want to find some Ivy League guy and do nothing with our lives?”
Connor’s lip twitches, suppressing a smile. “I also said something about probably marrying that type.”
I don’t see where he’s headed with this. “Rose is not that kind of girl. She’s talented and driven and determined—”
“I said I would probably marry the type, not that I wanted to.”
Oh. I realize that Connor Cobalt will ace any test I give him—the downside to quizzing an honor student.
Ryke and Lo return, and surprisingly, one of Lo’s black T-shirts fits Ryke perfectly. And he wears a pair of Lo’s jeans, the thighs a little tight but other than that, they fit as well. Neither guy says a word, the tension eking from their tight postures. Lo settles back beside me while Connor offers up his chair to Ryke.
Ryke nods in thanks and takes a seat. Connor drags the red recliner closer to our little group, and the rumble of the dryer fills the short-lived void.
Connor turns his attention on Ryke and says, “So you’re writing an article about children of tycoons. I assume you forgot to ask me.”
Ryke teeters back on two legs of his chair. “Must have slipped my mind.” He flashes a dry smile, avoiding my gaze.
“Then I accept.”
Ryke’s eyebrows shoot up. “You accept?”
Lo interjects, “That sounds perfect. You should just write about Connor. He’s a willing participant, and your story will have a happy ending. Everyone wins.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I stiffen, not sure how Ryke’s going to cover this one.
“No, I don’t like it.” That’s his lie? I roll my eyes. I shouldn’t have expected something better.
Lo rubs his lips. “Then you’re not going to follow Connor too?”
Ryke briefly looks at Connor who sits with his ankle on his knee, so preppy that you could snap a picture and put him in a J Crew advertisement. “No offense, Connor, but I’d rather not hang around ass-kissers all day. If you’re with Lo and Lily, I’ll write about you. That’s all I have.”
“I already accepted,” Connor tells him.
Lo hasn’t. He laces his fingers in mine. “Are you going to ask me questions?”
“Do you have something against them?” Ryke wonders. “Question-phobic?”
Lo glares. “I just don’t have a warm spot in my heart for people who pry.”
“Yeah? Well that kind of goes against my profession.” He points to his chest. “Journalism major. Asking uncomfortable questions is my forte.” I can believe that.
Lo glowers at the ceiling. “Then I have full discretion to ask you anything personal. How’s that for a stipulation?”
“Sounds fair.”
Lo doesn’t need to tell me that he hates the situation. His icy posture says it all. I understand his hesitation. There’s an underlying judgment that comes with surrounding ourselves with other people. We’ve been cut off from snide glances and hateful words like “slut, drunkard, loser” for so long that he fears going back to that place. The one where his father smacks the back of his head, wondering why his kid just fucked up by staying out all night drinking. The one where a prep school girl slanders me as diseased, dumb and dimwitted.