Kiss the Sky (Calloway Sisters #1)(67)

“No,” he says. “You’re not allowed to fucking talk to her for the rest of the show.”

Ahead of them, Daisy glances over her shoulder, and her lips lift in appreciation. Scott must be annoying her as much as he is the rest of us.

“I can do what I want,” Scott says, lowering his voice so others can’t hear. “I own you and her. And these three behind me. Don’t ever forget that.”

I don’t restrain Ryke. Neither does Lo. But surprisingly, he restrains himself, pocketing his fists in his jeans. He passes Scott, shoving him hard, shoulder-to-shoulder, before reaching Daisy’s side and leading her out.

Scott stumbles back, but I’m more concentrated on what happens as soon as the tinted restaurant doors open. The blinding flashes of cameras are as bad as a flickering black-light in a club. And the shouts of the paparazzi, screaming questions for us to answer, blare into Valentino’s candle-lit, serene atmosphere.

Lily shrinks into Lo’s chest. “I wish my invisibility superpower would kick in,” she mutters to him.

“Don’t ever wish that,” he says and kisses her cheek. “Then I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“Teleportation then.”

“Yeah, I’m still fucking praying for that one.” He squeezes her shoulder.

Rose and I watch them closely, waiting for them to safely exit the restaurant and grow the strength to move forward. Scott has already followed Ryke and Daisy outside.

I study Rose for a second. Her neck is rigid, her shoulders locked back, and she looks ready to enter a fiery ring of hell. But she’s not breathing.

“Tout va bien se passer,” I whisper. Everything will be fine.

“Comment sais-tu ?” How do you know?

“Because I’m here,” I say with all of my confidence, willing it in my voice, my posture, my being.

Her lips rise, but she doesn’t mention how arrogant I am today. Her hand drops to mine, and she holds it tightly. And we watch as Lo finally encourages Lily to take her first steps outside.





CHAPTER 23





CONNOR COBALT





One hour. That’s how long I slept. My mother called me in to file paperwork at midnight. It wasn’t a job a CEO would ever have to do, but she likes to test my tenacity—how badly I want the position.

Well, I want it badly enough that I need a second prescription of Adderall. How’s that?

I took a nap on the couch, but I had to get up to finish a research project, so here I am. Sipping my sixth cup of coffee and submitting a paper via email. My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter as I refill the coffee pot for Rose.

I glance at the screen and read the caller’s name: FREDERICK. I collect the phone, making my way onto the back patio before I answer it. “I’m heading to your office in fifteen minutes,” I tell him, resting an elbow on the edge of the large hot tub. My breath smokes the chilly air.

I hear the click click of a camera, and I spot paparazzi on the street, their arms and lenses sticking out of car windows. I don’t spin around, not caring whether they have a photo of me or not.

“That’s why I’m calling,” Frederick says. “You’re not seeing me anymore.”

I know this is about the Adderall. I texted him last night to sign-off on a refill of my prescription. He never replied back.

I take a long sip of my coffee, ignoring his comment and the firmness in his voice.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you try to predict the future. You failed by the way.”

“That prescription was supposed to last you six months, Connor. You weren’t supposed to take those pills every day. And I don’t want you coming to sessions anymore, not when you can use that time to sleep.”

“I sleep just fine.”

“Then you’ll be fine if I don’t sign-off on your refill.” He’s not bluffing, and my silence prods him to continue. “Get some sleep. I don’t want to talk or see you until you’re in a healthy routine.”

“You would desert your patient just like that?” I say calmly. I have to sit down on the steps of the hot tub, the rejection like a slap to the face, even if I don’t show it in my voice, even if Frederick’s actions come from a place of sympathy. It hurts that he’d be so quick to dismiss me when he’s been my counsel for twelve years.

“If I believe it’s in your best interest, yes, I would.”

“What’s in my best interest,” I say, “is to talk to my therapist, not to sleep my day away.”

“We can talk in three weeks when you’re back on your feet.”

“I’m always on my feet.” I glance at my position right now. I am literally and figuratively sitting down. Wonderful.

“Connor,” he says, drawing out my name so I listen closely, “you’re not inhuman. You don’t need me to remind you of what you’re feeling. It’s there inside your head.”

I rub my dry, scratchy eyes as I process his words. After a couple seconds, I say, “You’re not expendable to me, Frederick. You’re necessary to my life.”

“I know. This is only temporary.”

“Okay,” I give in. I lose this fight. Only with Frederick do I concede so easily. I trust his advice more than I do my own at times. That’s the highest praise you can get from me, by the way. “I’ll sleep and see you in three weeks.” No more Adderall. I already know that Wharton is going to be the first to suffer from this choice. And yet, I don’t care as much as I would have months ago. My priorities keep shifting. “I have a lot to talk about,” I add.