Her eyes flit to the camera.
That may have been the first time she’s rejected me—since we’ve been an official couple that is.
Jesus, maybe this reality show will actually do some good.
My lips sting. She breathes heavily.
I follow her gaze, and my grin stretches.
Brett’s cheeks are flushed red, and he makes a concerted effort to avoid our eyes.
Lily said she missed the teasing. I didn’t realize how much I did too, until now.
A thin sheen of sweat is gathered on my forehead. “You hot and bothered, Brett?” I ask him.
He makes an uncomfortable noise that sounds like a grunt. “You can’t…”
“Talk to you? Right.” I flash a half-smile.
Six months of a reality show—we can do this. Easy.
Lily’s cell chimes. She takes her flip phone out of her pocket, and her mood clouds. “Rose is asking about cake tasting.”
I try to suppress a cringe, but I’m sure it passes through my features. I’m not Connor Cobalt. I can’t hide what I’m feeling. “What do you want at the wedding?” Our wedding. Now I really grimace. Shit. I train myself not to glance back at the cameras.
We’re being married for appearance’s sake, even though it’ll be real. I love every single part of Lily, but I hate that this day is being dictated by her mom and my dad.
I’d rather just elope.
But that’s not part of the “image rehabilitation” plan.
“I don’t really care,” she says in a small voice.
I shrug. “Me either. Just tell her to choose.”
Lily nods, her shoulders drooped.
When she finishes texting back, I pull her close and wrap her in my arms. I don’t say anything. I just hold her.
Six months until our wedding—yeah, shit just got real.
{ 13 }
0 years : 05 months
January
LILY CALLOWAY
In just three days, our world has warped. Whether this is a terrible change or a catastrophic one is to be seen.
“Have you checked out the bathrooms?” Daisy asks me, plopping on my bed.
“Not yet,” I say. I’m on another mission.
Empty cardboard boxes litter the floorboards of my new bedroom in a Philadelphia townhouse. I still can’t find my canopy net. Either the movers took it for themselves or Lo tossed it when we were unpacking. I didn’t realize I’d grown an attachment to the thing until I lost it. Pretending to be in a jungle safari at night just won’t be the same.
I cautiously eye the door in case Brett or Ben or Savannah （the camera trio） dart into my new room to film us.
I need to be incognito for a few minutes. I hoist my body on the dresser that the movers just heaved in here. With a broom in hand, I do a piss poor job, but I manage to stand on two feet.
Daisy collects her long blonde hair into a high, messy bun. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for bugs,” I say. The electrical, peeping Tom kind. In the hallways, living room, kitchen and other common areas, rafters make up the ceiling, rigged with so many wires and cameras. Rose said we had to move to the townhouse for better sound, but the contracts say we can’t be filmed in the bedrooms.
I’m not taking any chances.
The world already thinks I’m a sexual nutcase. I don’t want them to have footage of private acts between Lo and me. With the end of my broom, I poke at the wires and a suspicious looking black box. I stand on the tips of my toes.
Oh my God.
There’s so much space between the rafters that a whole body could crawl on top of them, army-man style, and then they can hang down like Mission Impossible and film us while we’re sleeping.
“What’s wrong?”
I spin at Lo’s voice and the dresser wobbles underneath my bare feet. While I concentrate on not falling, Lo scoops me up in his arms and sets me safe on the floor.
“Are you cleaning?” Lo asks with raised brows. “Because I have never seen you pick up a broom.”
“She was checking for bugs,” Daisy tells him, legs crossed on the end of my bed.
Lo frowns. “I thought Rose already hired an exterminator.” The townhouse is old, which made Rose upset more than anyone else. She likes clean areas, not musty, moldy creaks and crannies filled with spider webs and the occasional daddy-long-leg. I don’t mind it so much. Maybe because I’m so focused on the cameras.
“Not those kind of bugs.” I point at the black box. “That’s a camera.”
His frown morphs into a scowl and then he follows my finger. “That looks like a battery.”