Rose gives him a sharp look. “The Hamburgler, really?”
“Freud pioneered psychoanalysis. You discredit him and that’s when the McDonald’s references start flying.”
She slaps his laptop closed, and he rests an arm on the back of the couch, turning towards her a little. I have to edge back behind the wall, concealing more of my body from view.
Connor has rosy pink lips, thick wavy brown hair, and a smile worth the millions in his trust fund. “Yes?” he says, eyeing her lips that pinch tightly.
Rose wears her brown hair in a slicked back ponytail. Her yellowish-green, cat-colored eyes pierce him. “The psychosexual theory has a way of picturing women as broken, inefficient toys that need to be fixed.”
“I know,” Connor says. “A lot of it is misogynistic, but it’s interesting, don’t you think?”
“No. I find it infuriating.”
His lips quirk in a smile. “Just like me?”
She rolls her eyes, but she sort of lingers there as she refuses to lose contact completely. I can tell she wants to kiss him, maybe just as much as he wants to kiss her. But then she turns her head, breaking the moment. Just like Rose to push a guy away. Sometimes I think she fears a lack of power that comes in a relationship, as though she may lose some sort of advantage if she lets Connor in.
He doesn’t look defeated. In fact, his eyes pulse with the exact opposite. Determined. Challenged.
A hair falls from its hold in her pony, and Rose tucks it behind her ear. “I think I’m onto something here. This psychologist suggests that sexual addiction can be closely related to obsessive compulsive disorder. If I look into OCD, then maybe I’ll have a better understanding of what Lily is going through.”
“We,” he says.
Rose’s brows furrow. “What?”
“You said ‘if I look into OCD.’ I told you I want to help, so I’m going to help. Lily is my friend too.” He shifts so their bodies press a little closer, and Rose’s laptop sits on each of their legs. They seem to be having a “moment” so I decide to make a quiet exit and head into the kitchen, but as I turn, one of the DVDs on the top of my bin slides off and clatters to the wooden floor.
I freeze, my eyes widening as their necks turn. I’m a deer caught in their headlights. Please don’t say anything. Let me drift away and pretend we didn’t meet gazes.
No such luck.
Rose shuts her laptop so I can’t see her screen, and she rises from the couch, smoothing down her dress with her hands. “What are you doing up? I thought you took a sleeping pill.” And then her eyes wander to the DVDs in the trash bin.
“I haven’t taken one yet,” I say, avoiding Connor. His presence has increased the volume of my embarrassment. And yet, both of them act completely innocent, as if this isn’t out of the ordinary. Why am I always the one to roast a new shade of red?
“What’s that?” Rose wanders over to my frozen state by the archway, straddling the space between the granite kitchen and the living room. Connor stands and puts his hands in the pockets of his slacks, casual. Having your girlfriend’s sister carry an overflowing bin of porn is so normal.
“I was tossing it,” I tell her as she inspects the DVDs with a quick glance.
“What brought this on?” Rose asks, but something hopeful flickers in her eyes. She can see that I’m trying, and my chest floats, feeling a little better by her reaction.
“I just thought it was time to get rid of it all.”
“That’s the rest?” Connor asks, sidling to Rose. His presence drives knots in my stomach—the way he stands a good four inches taller than Rose, more than that for me. His strong, muscular build reminds me of what I’m missing.
Uncomfortable, I take a step backwards and shun their gazes. “I’m going to trash this and then head back upstairs.”
Rose must read me too well because she uses her arm to push Connor back. “You need to go.”
“Rose, she’s fine. She can’t be afraid of men forever. And anyway, she attended a party with male models. How am I any different than one of them?” I catch him flashing his impeccable smile.
“You did not just compare yourself to a high fashion model.”
“I did.”
Rose stares at the ceiling like oh my God. “You want to know how many times in a day I question why I’m with you?”
“Five times.”
“A hundred.”
“If you told me you were going to exaggerate, I would have picked that, but I thought we were being realistic here, hun.”