Kiss the Sky (2 page)

Love.

That was fake to me.

And I nearly rolled my eyes.
There you go, Connor. That’s something fucking real. That’s something
from the heart.

“Rose,” I began. And she turned to look at me. And her gaze
was like the depths of hell. Ice cold. Bitter. Tumultuous and pained. I wanted
to bear it all. But I couldn’t show her all the cards I held to do so. I
couldn’t let her in. I’d lose the game first. And it had only just begun.
“You’re going to do great.”

And that was it.

She was gone.

Through a friend of a friend, I learned that Rose Calloway
was accepted to the Honor’s Program. I learned that she denied the request to
attend Penn. For whatever reason, she chose Princeton, our rival college.

Six months later, I started to date Caroline Haverford. Not
long after that, she became my girlfriend.

It was a life that I saw coming.

It was one that I was prepared for.

There was nothing spontaneous or alluring about it.

At nineteen, everything was just practical.

Five Years Later

[ 1 ]

ROSE CALLOWAY

You know the stories where the strong, brawny man
struts into a room with his head high, his chest puffed, and his stocky
shoulders pulled back—he’s the king of the jungle, the big man on campus, the
one who quivers girls’ knees. He carries an air of unwarranted superiority for
the pure fact that he has a dick, and he knows it. He expects the girl to go
tongue-tied and agree to his every demand.

Well, I am living that story right now.

The man settles into a seat at the head of the conference
table (instead of the chair nearest me) and just stares in my direction.

Maybe he thinks I’m going to be that stupefied girl. That I
will cower beneath his deep gray eyes and his combed dishwater blond hair. He’s
twenty-eight, stained with Hollywood elitism and self-righteousness. When I
first talked to him, he name-dropped actors and producers and directors,
waiting for me to go slack-jawed and dopey. “I know so-and-so. I did a project
with what’s-his-face.”

My boyfriend had to grab the phone out of my hand before I
cursed at the Hollywood exec for irritating the shit out of me.

He finally speaks. “Do you have the contracts?” His chair
screeches as he leans back.

I pull out the stack of papers from my handbag.

“Bring them here.” He motions to me with two fingers.

“You could have sat beside me,” I retort, standing on two
chunky heels with brass buttons, military-inspired and part of the new Calloway
Couture collection.

“But I didn’t,” he says easily. “Come here.”

My heels clink across the hardwood, and I make the perilous
catwalk up to Scott Van Wright.

He props one ankle on his thigh, his finger to his cheek as
he unabashedly peruses my body. From my slender legs, to the hem of my black
pleated dress with sheer quarter-sleeves, and to the high collar that frames my
stiff neck. He traces my dark-glossed lips, my rose-blushed cheeks, and
bypasses right over my pissed-off eyes, spending an extra moment fixated on my
chest.

I stop by his legs and throw the contracts on the table in
front of him. They slide off the polished surface and land on his lap. One
stapled stack even slips to the floor. I smile wide since he has to bend down
awkwardly to reach them.

“Pick that up,” he tells me.

My smile fades. “It’s underneath the desk.”

He cocks his head, giving me
another
long once-over. “And
you
dropped it.”

He cannot be serious. I cross my arms, not responding to his
request. He just sits there, waiting for me to comply.

This is a test.

I’m used to them. Sometimes I even dole them out myself, but
this one is going to lead me nowhere good.

If I bend down, he’ll establish this strange power over me.
He’ll be able to command me in the same way that Connor Cobalt can force people
to do his bidding with simple words.

It’s a manipulator’s gift.

I’m not even close to possessing it. I think I wear my
emotions too much to have that type of influence over other people.

“Grab it,” he says, his gaze halting on my breasts again.

I remind myself why I need Scott and why I want the swarm of
cameras to document my every move. I inhale. Okay.
You have to do it, Rose. Whatever it takes.
I cringe and drop to my
knees. In a dress. This is a job for a personal assistant, not a client.
 

I hear him click his pen as I scoop up the papers. I’m not
wearing a low-cut top where I’ll flash him. I don’t have huge breasts to really
ogle either. The most he can do is slap my ass and try to peek up my dress, the
hem perilously rising on my thighs.

When I stand back up and smack the papers to the table, his
lips curve upward.

Scott Van Wright (asshole) 1 – Rose Calloway (pathetic) 0.

I sit in the nearest chair while Scott stuffs the contracts
in his briefcase.

My boyfriend urged me to bring his lawyer to the meeting,
but I didn’t want Scott to think that I couldn’t handle the situation myself. I
won’t have a lawyer while the cameras follow me, and I’d rather take command
now.

Not that I’m doing a terrific job.

If I ordered Scott to do anything, he’d laugh at me. But I
attended a few law courses before I graduated from Princeton. I know my rights.

“Just so we have this clear, you work for me,” I remind him.
“I hired you to produce the show.”

“That’s cute. But after you signed that contract, you’ve
officially become
my
employee. You’re
the equivalent of an actress, Rose.”

No
. “I can fire
you. You can’t fire me. That doesn’t make me your employee, Scott. That makes
me your boss.”

I expect him to withdraw from this losing battle, but he
shakes his head like I’m wrong. I know I’m right… Right? “My production company
has sole ownership over
anything
the
Calloway sisters film on network television. If you fire me, you need just
cause and you can’t jump to another producer. I’m your only shot at having a
reality show, Rose.”

I remember that clause, but I never thought it would be an
issue. I figured I’d be around Scott maybe twice during the whole filming
process. But these were his first words when he walked into the conference
room: “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.” Lovely.

My eyes grow hot. I have to concede on this one. He won.
Somehow. I hate it.

“So, now that we have that clear,” he says, sitting up and
edging closer to me. His knees almost knock into mine. I go utterly rigid.
“There are a few details we need to go over in case you misread them in the
contract.”

“I don’t misread things.”

“Well
evidently
you
weren’t using a portion of your brain or else you would have realized that you
work for me now. And we wouldn’t have wasted…” He checks his watch. “…five
minutes of my time.” He flashes me a sardonic smile like I’m a little girl.

“I’m not an idiot,” I retort. “I graduated at the top of my
class with highest honors—”

“I don’t care about your fucking degree,” he says sharply.
“You’re in the real world now, Rose Calloway. No university is going to teach
you how to navigate this industry.”

Doubt surfaces. I don’t know much about reality television,
but I’ve been immersed in the media long enough to know it can help someone as
much as it can destroy them.

And I need that help.

I understand exactly why the network would take an interest
in the daughters of Fizzle. My father’s brand has beat Pepsi for the past two
years in sales, and he’s working to make Fizzle the soda of choice among
southern states. We should be as anonymous as the face behind Coca-Cola, but
ever since my family was thrust into the public eye, we’ve been under intense
scrutiny, and it’s all because of my younger sister’s scandal.

My brand should have exploded from all the media and press,
but the name Calloway Couture has been linked with Lily’s dirty secrets. And
what once was a thriving fashion line in H&M has been destitute in boxes
and boxes, piled in my New York office.

I need
good
exposure,
the kind that will have women desiring a one-of-a-kind coat, a unique pair of a
boots, an affordable but chic handbag. And Scott Van Wright is offering me a
primetime reality show that will tempt viewers to purchase my pieces.

So that’s why I’m agreeing to this.

I want to save my dream.

Scott says, “There will be cameras in your living room and
kitchen at all times, even after the three-person crew leaves. You’ll only have
privacy in your bedrooms and bathrooms.”

“I remember this.”

“Good.” Scott clicks his pen. “Then maybe you’ll remember
that each week, I expect to have interviews with the cast, which includes you,
your three sisters—”

“Not three,” I say. “Only Lily and Daisy agreed to the
show.” My eldest sister, Poppy, wouldn’t sign the contract because she didn’t
want her daughter to be filmed. My little niece has already endured enough
paparazzi since Lily’s scandal.

“Fine, she would have been a boring addition anyway.”

I glower.

“I’m just being honest.”

“I’m used to blunt honesty,” I tell him. “I just find yours
crass.”

He eyes me in a new way, as though my words carried a plume
of toxic pheromones. I don’t understand. I am so mean. I am
glaring
like I want to rip off his
penis, and yet, he’s
attracted
. There
is something seriously wrong with him.

And maybe my boyfriend.

And really, any guy who’d like to be with me. I’m not even
sure
I
want to be with me.

“As I was saying…” His knee brushes mine.

I roll backwards, and he only grins more. This is not a
cat-and-mouse game like he believes. I am not a mouse. And he’s not a cat. Or
vice versa. I am the fucking shark, and he’s a lame human in my ocean.

And my boyfriend, he’s the same species as me.

“Continue,” I snap.

“I’ll be interviewing you, your two sisters, Lily’s
boyfriend and his brother.”
6 people + 6
months + 3 cameramen + 1 reality show = infinite drama
. I’ve done the math.

Scott will be conducting the interviews though… I internally
gag. “You’re forgetting my boyfriend,” I say. “He’s a part of the show too.”

“Oh right.”

“Don’t act like you forgot, Scott. You just said you were
practicing honesty, and now, well, you’re a bit of a liar.”

He ignores my slight. “Every episode will be aired one week
after we’ve filmed. The premiere will be in February, but we’re filming ASAP.
Like I mentioned over the phone, we’re trying to make this show as real-time as
possible. It’s been six months since it was publicized that your sister is a
sex addict. We need to capitalize off that buzz as quickly as we can.”

“You and every other person with a camera,” I say. There’s
always at least two chubby males stationed outside my gated house with lenses
pointed at us. Lily jokes that they’re probably hanging around waiting for her
to give them blow jobs. I would be more amused if I didn’t see the mail that
perverts send her, most accompanied with pictures of their hairy genitals—it’s
a sick fan club. I sift through her letters before I hand them to her now.

“And lastly,” Scott says, “you have no control over how
you’re edited. That’s my call.”

I have about as much power over the reality show as I do
paparazzi’s snap-quick photos.

I can try to act like a non-bitchy, non-argumentative angel
on film, and Lily can try to be a virginal saint. But at the end of the day,
the cameras will catch
us
. Flaws and
all. And there’s no forcing something different. That was the stipulation that
all my friends and sisters agreed to.

To do the show, we’re
not pretending to be someone else.
 

And I would never ask that of them.

We’re rolling the dice on this one. People may hate us. They
already call Lily a whore on gossip blogs. But in the small chance that people
grow to love us—my company may be saved. I just need good publicity so that a
retailer has a reason to stock my clothing line again.

And maybe Fizzle won’t be so bruised by Lily’s impropriety
too. Maybe my father’s soda company will rise in stocks rather than fall.

That’s the hope.

“Are you okay with this?” Scott questions.

“I don’t know why you ask. I signed the contract. I have to
be okay with it or else you’ll take me to court.”

He lets out a short laugh and scans my body for the third
time. “I can’t imagine your boyfriend knows what to do with you.”

“Because you’ve never met him.”

“I’ve spoken to him. He sounds malleable.” He taps his pen.
“If I told him to drop on his knees and suck my cock, I think he would.”

My nostrils flare. I am fuming. “You think that.” I stand.
“And when he stabs you in the fucking front, I’ll be the one smiling by his
side.”

Scott
grins
at
this. “Challenge accepted.”

Stupid intellectual pricks.

Funny thing is, I’m dating one.

So while I’m stuck in this moronic cock fight, I know I’m
partially to blame.

I knew I should have lowered my standards—dated a guy who
rides around on his skateboard with his shirt inside-out. I grimace. Just
kidding. I’ll take my suit-and-tie boyfriend. I’ll take the high IQ and the
rapid-fire banter. I just hope Scott’s eagerness to unsettle him won’t disrupt
the reality show.

But if I know anything, it’s this:

My boyfriend loves winning.

And he hates to lose even more.
   

[ 2 ]

ROSE CALLOWAY