Kiss the Sky (Calloway Sisters, #1)(15)

Anyway, I don’t think she’d appreciate another girl hitting on me this way. In fact, I’m almost certain she’d rip her to shreds and grab me.

Rose spins towards Scott. “You’re the executive producer.”

“Yes?”

“So you’re in charge of production. You make the rules. So you can leave.”

“Yes, but I also have the network breathing down my neck. GBA expects certain things from Princesses of Philly when I pitched the show to them. My placement in the house was a promise I made.”

He’s planned this for that long?

Maybe he’s smarter than I thought.

Rose fumes. “If the network wants you here, then fine. But the moment I think you’re fucking with my friends and their relationships, even mine, you’re gone. My company isn’t worth hurting everyone I care about.”

“Okay,” Scott says evenly. “But I can’t be held accountable for your feelings, Rose. If you end up liking me, that’s completely out of my control.”

Well, he’s still the douchebag I thought he was.

Rose snorts and backs up into my chest. It’s intentional. And I could kiss her for it. Instead, I wrap my arm protectively around her collar, and she clutches onto me.

“I’d rather burn,” she tells him.

Scott just smiles and motions to Ben who’s filmed the entire scene. “Get everyone in this fucking living room. We have a psychic segment to shoot.”

Game on.





[ 5 ]





ROSE CALLOWAY


“He’s cute,” Daisy says, appraising Scott from the kitchen. The main level of the townhouse is all one open space, so we have a direct view of the four guys in the living room, sitting on various pieces of leather furniture. The frizzy-haired psychic is on the ottoman, shuffling her Tarot cards.

Lily and I give our youngest sister a long stare. Mine contains a strong warning, but Lily looks more confused, like a puppy wandering the side of a road. I’d only stop to help a sad dog if they shared my genetics. Cruel, maybe. But survival of the fucking fittest. Blood is thicker than water. Choke on all of those clichés. They’re true.

Daisy adds, “I mean, if you’re into the whole blond, scruffy alpha-male vibe.” She bites into a carrot with a crooked grin.

“You mean if you’re into the whole domineering, jackass vibe,” I refute.

“Or that,” she says. “But no offense, Ryke is more of the jackass.” She says it with an even larger smile. Yes, she’s friends with Loren’s brother, who happens to be twenty-three. It’d be stranger if she didn’t hang around high fashion models older than even him.

My two sisters and I have excused ourselves from the palm reading to replenish on pizza and drinks. But really, I wanted to leave the guys to grill the producer…or rather—my fake ex-boyfriend. I internally gag every time I think of Scott and boyfriend in the same sentence. He’s put this disgusting chili pepper and pickle taste in my mouth. And for anyone who finds that combination pleasant, I’ll give you Scott’s number. He’s all yours.

I watch Connor and Scott’s tense conversation as they share the same couch. They both sit tall, silently establishing their dominance, but a good amount of space separates them.

On a plush chair, Ryke observes our producer with a dark scowl but is smart to stay quiet.

However, Lo constantly interjects, sitting on the loveseat. And while the other guys keep their voices low, I can hear his heated retorts from the kitchen. He gesticulates with his hands, pointing at Scott more than once.

“I think they’re all assholes,” I say matter-of-factly. “Some just have more redeeming qualities than others.” Kind of like us. I’m not the most likable girl in the world.

Savannah, the redheaded camerawoman, stands beside the oven. She’s around our age and wears a skull and crossbones bandana over her braids. She focuses the camera on Lily, which is not good. My twenty-one-year-old sister is the only person who has trouble not looking into the lens.

“I don’t like Scott,” Lily says, her eyes flickering to the camera with each word. She nears Daisy and cups her hand around her mouth to whisper. “He stared at your boobs for like a whole minute.”

Daisy shrugs and climbs on the counter, swinging her long legs. Her dyed blonde hair drapes to her waist. She’d cut it if her new modeling agency would let her. “There are photographs of me in my underwear,” she says (too casually). She pops a piece of broccoli in her mouth from a vegetable tray. “When guys read the magazines, they could be doing more than staring at my boobs.”

Lily flushes red in embarrassment.

Daisy frowns in confusion and then she laughs lightly. “You used to jack off to mags? That’s fucking awesome, Lil.”

I suck in a sharp breath, worried by my little sister’s lack of filter in front of the cameras. But I don’t scold Daisy for her bluntness. I don’t want to make it seem like female masturbation is a bad thing. I wholeheartedly approve, but Lily is a recovering sex addict who has been known to compulsively delve into self-love and porn, abusing both. Those days are over for her. They have been for months.

“I don’t think girls can jack off,” Lily tells her, collecting her bearings. She tries to act more confident, straightening up.