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.

I juggle a box of old invoices and a bag of salads and chicken primavera that’s hooked on my arm, searching for my keys in my clutch. My phone occupies one palm, and I struggle to maintain perfect balance on my wrap-around porch, teetering in a pair of four-inch booties.

I live in a college town: Princeton, New Jersey. And my gated colonial house has acres of sprawling green lands, black shutters, and winter flowers. But right now, I can’t take pleasure in the serene atmosphere.

A lens gleams to my left, filming. The camera guy is roughly around my age, wiry and lanky. In two days, Ben has talked as much as his other two cohorts, which is not much at all. They just shoot.

His sole presence distracts my juggling act.

And red sauce leaks from the white plastic bag, missing my pea coat and dribbling on my romper. I flail in distress, trying to maintain a morsel of grace, but my box of invoices starts to tilt off me.

And then, all of a sudden, the cardboard is plucked right from my arms, and I am left in an awkward, hunched over position, avoiding the trickling plastic bag like it’s the source of the bubonic plague.

I glance over my shoulder and meet Connor’s eyes. And I trace his features quickly: his thick, wavy brown hair, his fair skin and pink lips, striking blue eyes and a conceited smile that somehow never gets him in trouble. He wears confidence like his most expensive suit, with style and dignity and so much charm. I immediately want to combat him, to match him smile for smile, grin for grin, word for word. But right now, that conceited look does not lessen my misery.

Although, I am overly grateful that my invoices weren’t scattered along the porch. My profit margin is embarrassing, and I’d rather Connor not catch a glimpse of the numbers.

“Are you auditioning to play Quasimodo?” he quips.

I flash a dry smile. “Very funny.”

“Give that here.” He gestures with his fingers to pass the food.

“I have it,” I say. “The damage is already done.” My romper will need to soak in spot-remover for an hour.

Still, he leans over and unlocks the door with his key. I don’t know why this rouses me. Maybe the fact that he has a key at all. That he lives with me. I still can’t believe our relationship has moved to that level. Especially since I have yet to fully comprehend Connor Cobalt, and we’ve been dating for over a year.

He’s the hardest person to understand because he makes it so.

But I would never admit that to Scott Van Wright.

I should be glad that my boyfriend has saved the day by grabbing my things, but the fact that I ruined it makes me feel unraveled, as though my hair is frizzy, my lipstick smudged, my dress crooked—oh, well it is stained, so there’s that. And my mouth flies open before I can shut it. “You’re good at that.”

His brow arches, seeing exactly where I’m going. “Of sticking my key into a hole.” His hand drifts to the crook of my hip.

“I said nothing about your keyhole,” I retort.

“No, I believe you were about to comment on your keyhole and my key.”

“If you’re trying to frazzle me with sexual idioms, it’s not going to work.”

“I didn’t think it would, seeing as how you were the one about to mention keyholes in the first place.” It’s as though he can read my mind. We think alike on too many occasions. “You’ve been spending too much time around your sister,” he adds, smiling as he says it.

I suppose he’s right. Lily would have been quick to make that assessment. Keys. Holes. Sex. That’s where her mind travels. I would like to say mine doesn’t go there on occasion, but I’m only human.

My eyes flicker to the camera, and Ben shakes his head like you can’t look into the lens. But I’m not embarrassed by our talk. I’m just trying to get used to the third-party presence that lingers like an awkward chaperone on a date.

“The door’s open,” Connor tells me.

So it is. I pass him my clutch and my phone. Then I sacrifice my hands and dam the hole in the bag, the sauce collecting in a pool but thankfully not streaking a red trail along the hardwood.

I head into the kitchen of my house and spot the second camera guy—Brett, short and stubby and a little plump, the exact opposite of Ben. His eyes grow big as he shoots, a steadicam attached to his chest like Ben.

It takes two-point-two seconds for me to find the source of his wide-eyed expression. Loren has cornered my sister into a cabinet, his entire body pressed against her so tightly that air can’t pass through. They kiss deeply and passionately, as if no one else lives in the same universe as them.

His hands disappear underneath her blouse, but it’s quite obvious he’s groping her breasts. And then one hand emerges. Thank God.

He hikes her leg around his waist. Or not.

Lily lets out a sharp gasp, her fingers gripping his brown hair that’s thick on top and shorter on the sides. She’s tinier than me, and she has lighter hair than I do. I have the bigger ass, the bigger boobs and the fuller hips. She’s thin in ways that I’m not.

Connor clears his throat, and Lily detaches from Loren (or Lo, depending on my mood. I usually swap between the two. He prefers the nickname over his full-real name, but I don’t really care).

Lily’s whole face reddens.

“Did we disturb you?” Connor asks casually, setting my things on the bar.

Lo wipes his mouth, eyebrows raised. “Actually, yes.”

“Don’t be crude, Loren,” I refute as I set the bag in the sink. Lily tries to hide behind her hands. Connor and I are more comfortable in situations like these.

“Crude?” Loren says with a short laugh. “Last week you told me if you ever saw me with an erection, you’d slam my boner in a doorjamb.”

Connor nods to Lo. “In Rose’s defense, no one but Lily really wants to see your erection.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” he banters.

Connor’s lips rise. “Shh, that’s between us, love.”

I shoot him a look. “You’re asking to sleep on the floor tonight.” Their friendship, while amusing, is coming at my expense.

Connor eases close to me, and he tilts his head down to whisper in my ear, his eyes full of power. “If you think it’s best, I’ll convince you to let me back in your bed later.”

His voice is deep and sexual, and something that shallows my breath for an instant. I’m about to reply, but Lo tickles Lily’s hips and she squeals. They distract me, breaking whatever brief moment was occurring with Connor.