I haven’t even met Rose Calloway’s husband, Connor Cobalt, yet. He could very well hate me. On the reality show, he came off as a conceited human being. I even made a gif set of him saying (with a straight face), “Most people never reach the pinnacle of perfection. But I’m not most people, so think of it as an honor to meet me.”
He’s a genius. A billionaire. And living in a bedroom down the hall from him sounds like a fantasyland not created for me.
“I don’t want to complicate your life,” I tell him honestly.
His brows rise at me, and he motions to a bearded cameraman by my window. “And I’m not complicating yours?”
The man meets Lo’s gaze, and Lo flashes his iconic dry smile at him. Seeing that smile in person is more powerful than in photograph.
On impulse, I almost take a picture, but I control myself, flipping my phone in my hand. It’s so easy to become part of the paparazzi without really knowing.
“I’m going to grab a fucking box and head inside. Do you have your keycard?” Ryke asks me.
I nod.
Loren seems reluctant to do this.
Ryke gives him a look that I can’t read. “You can’t force her to live with us,” he reminds him.
“She’s only seventeen,” he whispers, running a frustrated hand through his hair, thicker on top, shorter on the sides. “She should be closer to the high school she’s going to attend, not to Penn.”
“I’m closer to UPenn,” I say softly, “not Penn.”
Both of the brothers swing their heads to the backseat, and I swear camera flashes go off like crazy. The windows are only slightly tinted, so I wonder how much the paparazzi catch.
I feel my cheeks heat, but the color drains, their eye contact more and more intimidating. “Do I have…something on my face?” My voice dies, and by their rising smiles, I immediately regret speaking. I shrink into place.
Ryke tells me, “The only people I’ve ever heard say UPenn are people who never attended the University of Pennsylvania.” He pockets his car keys. “We all call it Penn. At least when we went there that’s how it was. Who the fuck knows what students are calling it now.”
He acts like he graduated decades ago, but he just turned twenty-six. I’m not that great at math, but I can subtract well enough to figure out that it’s been four years since he graced Penn’s campus.
Lo adds, “Most of the older faculty prefer calling it Penn over UPenn. It’s just tradition and it sticks with some people when you’re there.”
“But Penn State…”
“Is called Penn State,” Lo explains. “If you say, ‘I go to Penn’ around here, most people will assume it’s not Penn State.”
“And if they don’t, who the fuck cares,” Ryke finishes. He also flashes the middle finger to the cameraman outside my window. “He’s too close to her.”
“I’ll get out and go around to her door,” Lo tells him. “You pop the trunk and grab the first box.” At this, both of them open their car doors and climb out. Flashes bombard them, along with a barrage of voices.
I unbuckle and scoot towards the door that Loren nears.
“Back up,” Loren tells them before opening my door and letting me out. I squeeze between him and a camera lens.
“What’s your name?!”
“How do you know Loren and Ryke?!”
“Who are you dating?!”
My shoulders curve forward at each incoming question, and I clutch my backpack strap, pulling it closer to my body.
Loren leaves my side to grab my second cardboard box, and I follow close by, as instructed. I trip a little over my feet and barely catch myself, avoiding a collision into Lo.
Do not fall, especially on your brother that you recently met.
Unfortunately, I’m most clumsy when I’m nervous.
It’s a horrible attribute. I wouldn’t wish it on my enemy, but then again, I doubt my enemies would ever feel nervous enough to be clumsy.
Ryke slams the trunk closed, and then we head towards the sidewalk. A cameraman sprints in front of me and walks backwards as he films. “What’s your name?!” he asks over the other paparazzi.
“She’s my cousin,” Loren lies with a dark glare. “So watch what you say and do.” He stuffs a hand in his pocket, the action casual but somehow threatening.
About this time, we reach the sidewalk, a direct shot to the glass double doors of the apartment complex. Lo said they can’t follow us inside. So I practically hold my breath in anticipation of ditching the eight—no, twelve cameramen that flank us.
And then, the weight on my shoulder goes from slightly heavy to very, very light—followed by a crash and a crack! I freeze in place and look down at the cement, wide-eyed at my backpack’s contents.
Shit. The bottom of my backpack ripped.
And my laptop… I’m about to bend down to check it, but I notice other items that litter the sidewalk.