Kiss the Sky (Addicted #3)(49)

My heels clap loudly on the marble floor as I strut towards him. I tip the rest of my champagne in my mouth and set the empty glass on a tray before I land by his side.

“Richard,” I say with heated eyes. I don’t care if I look like a bitch. That’s the point. I am who I am. Why can’t he just let people see the real him? Who cares if people don’t like him?

“There you are, babe,” Connor says, hooking his arm around my waist. He nods to his friend. “Patrick, you know Rose, right?”

“We’ve never been formally introduced,” Patrick says. He holds out his hand. “Patrick Nubell.”

I don’t shake it. “As in Nubell Cookies?” It makes sense. Connor doesn’t schmooze anyone. He has to have a reason to give you his time. Money and prestige are two important factors. Nubell sits just below Kraft (Oreos) and Keebler on the marketplace. Though Nubell cookies are more natural and less appetizing.

Patrick laughs and drops his hand, realizing I’m not going to shake it. He doesn’t seem affronted. Maybe he’s heard of my reputation. In these social circles, I am frequently called an ice queen.

“Yeah, it’s my great-great-grandfather’s company,” he explains. “You probably know how that is. People always asking you which flavor of Fizz you like the best. Well, I get do you prefer nugget or cinnamon.”

I stay quiet, which leaves Connor the opportunity to say, “Definitely, man.” He nods like he is entranced with this nugget/cinnamon conversation.

Sure, I could probably relate to Patrick on some level, but now is not the time for bonding. I have—I check my watch—four minutes until the show airs. And I need a pep talk. Preferably from Connor Cobalt and not the twat he has impersonated.

“Could you give us a minute, Patrick?” I ask now.

“Yeah, of course.” He leaves, probably searching for someone as young as him in the middle-aged crowd.

When I turn to Connor his eyes drop to mine. “That hurt me just as much as you,” he says immediately. “Trust me, I had to use the word killer and dude in the same f*cking sentence.”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” I retort. “And babe, really?” I smack his arm. “And you gave him a bro-hug, Connor. Who are you?” I don’t give him time to answer because I know it will be something profoundly aggravating. “And what were you doing with Nubell Cookies? Are you trying to partner with them? That sounds like a fantastic idea. Put magnets in the tins and make everyone sick.”

I finish my rant and he full-on grins. But it’s different this time.

He smiles at me like every word I said was special. Like they belonged to him and me.

“What?” I snap, but my voice softens when I see the look in his eye that says I mean everything to him.

He intertwines his fingers with mine and draws me to his chest, “Nothing, darling.” His breath warms my ear as he leans down. “You look gorgeous in that dress. Is it yours?”

Is it yours? He’s asking if I designed it. I nod.

He brushes my hair off my shoulder as I inhale strongly. His fingers run across the black fabric with studs on the collar, and he skims my neck with an even lighter touch.

“As gorgeous as it is,” he says, “I’m going to love taking it off you tonight.” He kisses my cheek, and I have to look around the room at all the faces to remember we’re in public.

With hundreds of people.

My emotions have suddenly calmed, and as Connor squeezes my hand, I realize why.

Lo is right. He has a gift.

The countdown on the screen ticks down from ten.

Ten seconds.

That’s all it takes to decide whether this show will fail.

Ten stupid seconds.



* * *



Thirty minutes in, and it’s not looking so good.

Beside me at the screening party, Lily shields her eyes with her hand, peeking beneath as we watch the train wreck that is our lives. The six of us have congregated in solidarity by the f*cking potted plant as the show continues playing. Scott chooses to stand beside my parents, whispering things to my mother, and she laughs with sincerity.

Connor’s eyes flicker from the television screens to Scott and my parents every so often. I can tell he’d like to go interject and break up Scott’s ploy to make nice with my mother and father, but he stays here. With me. And I appreciate that more than he knows.

We already watched the psychic disaster, and then I endured a five-minute clip where Daisy popped wheelies on her Ducati. She revved the bike too hard, and she slid off the back of the seat and ate it. Instead of crying, she picked up her motorcycle that rode off without her, and she tried again.

After watching that, our mother looked ready to storm over to us and scold her in front of everyone. The only thing that stopped her was the two-hundred onlookers.

I finish my second glass of champagne and snatch another one before the server darts away. The interview segments are the most interesting part of Princesses of Philly. None of us have seen each other’s tapes. Scott would stand behind Savannah’s camera, conducting the interviews in our study, the walls lined with books. And he’d dictate questions to her to ask us—just so his voice wouldn’t be recorded. God forbid anyone knows he’s orchestrating the show.

“Lily and Lo f**k a lot,” Ryke says, each f-bomb bleeped accordingly. He sits on a brown leather chair. “If we had to rank who’s getting the most, it’d be my brother, his girlfriend, then maybe Connor Cobalt and his hand.”