Loren is a recovering alcoholic. Lily is working on her sex addiction. They’re at a good stasis, but they can’t live alone since isolation is what amplified their addictions in the first place. So they’re here. With us.

And it’s about as awkward as it seems

With the cameras around I thought they might be more discreet, but the opposite has happened. Loren has taken PDA to a whole new level.

Some tabloids believe Loren and Lily are only engaged to repair my sister’s tarnished image as a sex addict, so Loren sticks his tongue down her throat (on camera), to give the world the middle finger for doubting their love. He really doesn’t care what the public thinks at this point.

But I do.

It’s why I have the cameras around in the first place.

Before Lily escapes Loren’s hold completely, he draws her back to his chest and playfully bites her shoulder. She fidgets with a goofy smile and slaps him on the bicep. His bites turn into kisses.

And both cameras spin off me and zoom in on them.

I don’t mind at all. Lily is wearing a signature Calloway Couture piece that viewers at home may like—a plum lacy skirt with a champagne blouse (untucked thanks to Lo’s fondling). She’s usually in leggings and Loren’s baggy shirts without a bra, so she looks slightly uncomfortable in the outfit, but I know she’s trying hard to make things right.

I tap on the faucet with my wrist, and Loren tears his gaze from Lily to see the red sauce that washes off my palms.

“Whose heart did you rip out this time?”

Scott Van Wright. I wish. “Connor’s,” I say, “but he stopped me before I got that far.”

Connor grins. “She has quick hands, but I’m faster.”

My eyes narrow. Oh, he wishes.

 “When is the psychic coming?” Lily perks up, combing her fingers anxiously through her hair, and she shifts as if her body doesn’t fit her quite right. From behind her, Loren tangles his arms around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder. She immediately relaxes into him.

His presence is a kind of reassurance that brightens her whole being. If she didn’t have Loren, I’d imagine she’d be on street corners, sleeping with random guys to satisfy her sexual compulsions. I’m more grateful that he’s here, helping her, than I’ll ever let on.

“She should be arriving soon.” I use extra hand soap and scrub beneath my nails.

Connor leans against the counter beside me. “A psychic at a dinner party,” he says, “next thing you know, we’re going to be pouring salt around the doors and creating spirit circles.”

“It’s two hours,” I remind him, “and you don’t have to believe in it to enjoy a reading.”

He watches me so intently that my heart starts to pound. My eyes skim his lips and rise back to his intense gaze. “No,” he says after a long moment, “I just have to listen to some crock stir up shit between us.”

I squirt more soap in my palm. “That won’t be happening.”

“I can tell the future better than whoever walks through that door—and I bet you a thousand dollars that she’s going to make someone cry tonight.”

“Fine,” I say. “If you want to lose a thousand dollars, then I’ll take your bet.” Who would cry? Not any of the guys. Not me. That leaves Lily and Daisy, and I do not see my youngest sister shedding a tear. And Lily—she’s a wild card. But I would bet on her strength.

“No way,” Loren cuts in. He has Lily swaddled in his arms. “That’s not a good bet. You need real stakes.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Connor tells him.

“For who?” Loren asks. “You’re the heir of a multi-billion dollar company, as is Rose. All of our parents shit gold bricks.”

“That’s disgusting,” I say flatly.

“A lap dance,” Loren suddenly says. “If Rose loses, she should give Connor a five-minute lap dance.”

My chest constricts, and I glare so hard at Loren that my eyes feel like they’re being serrated.

“You don’t have to do that,” Connor tells me. He studies the way I lock a breath in my lungs.

I am not my sister.

When it comes to intimacy, I am a chicken. I’ll fully admit that. I’m more likely to run out of a pair of arms than in them.

And Loren is aware of my hesitance. A part of me wonders if he feels badly for Connor, knowing that I’m not putting out after such a long time together. But maybe Loren’s just trying to provoke a reaction out of me.

Which everyone is about to see.

“You don’t think I would do it?” I ask Connor. I’m not sure I could grind on Connor. In public. Without being humiliated. I am confident in all areas except these: Being sexy, being skilled in bed, being great at sex. I believe, wholeheartedly, that sex is not something you can study to ace. No, you have to learn by experience.

And I have none.

So I have a feeling that once I do have sex with Connor, our relationship will be different. Any attraction that pulls between us will be cut with my sloppy moves and my inability to please him.

So far he has never pressured me to have sex, but I wait for the moment when he walks out—when he’s had enough of my high-octane personality and my obsessive compulsive behavior.

Hell, I want to walk away from me sometimes. My therapist even hates me. She’s prescribed me Alprazolam, Paroxetine, Fluvoxamine, and Clomipramine, drugs that I have taken and then disposed. On them, I feel so high I could be floating through life or I’m so heavy I could be sinking into mortal hell.

I am not the girl you want to sleep with every week. I’m the chase. The one you catch and then release. And once Connor has sex with me, he’ll be done. He’ll have won the hardest challenge of his life—de-virginizing the biggest virgin.

I know this. It’s how all men work with me.

And I never, ever let them win.

But Connor is getting close.

He watches me scrub my skin harder, my whole body tense and unmoving except for the bristle brush in between my fingers.

“Don’t answer her,” Loren warns him. “It’s a trick.”

Connor doesn’t move his gaze off mine. “I can handle her, Lo.” Yes, he may be the only one. He edges close and shuts off the faucet.

I turn it back on. “I’m not finished.” There’s a thin layer of sauce underneath my nails still.

“We both know you won’t give me a lap dance. So let’s stick to the thousand dollar bet.” His voice is unreadable. If there’s disappointment, he won’t ever let me hear it.

I feel defeated in some huge way. “I can do it,” I retort.

“I’m not trying to use reverse psychology on you, Rose. I really don’t think you should.” He shuts the faucet off again, and when I go to turn it back on, he slips in front of me, blocking the sink, and he wraps a towel around my hands.

“They’re clean,” he says.

I glance down at my romper, which is still stained. “I need to change.”

Loren cuts in, “So have we established whether or not we’ll be seeing a lap dance tonight?”

“Only if I lose,” I say.

Connor’s jaw muscles twitch, the single sign that I can read. He really doesn’t want me to do this, but I don’t like the way he’s staring at me. Like I’m a scared little bird.

I’m not frightened. Yet. “And if you lose,” I say, “what do I get in return?”

Connor gazes at my mouth just as I did him. He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip and says, “What do you want, darling?”

My heart pounds. I want to be great in bed. I want to please him better than he pleases me. I want to beat him.

But I know when it comes to sex, I’m never going to win. I’m at such a disadvantage. So I say, “If you lose, I don’t have to give you a lap dance.”

“Boo,” Lily says.

Loren nods. “Boring.

But the only one who matters says, “Deal.” Connor ignores my sister and her boyfriend. He finishes drying my hands. I just now notice how raw and red my skin is. I sometimes get carried away without realizing…

“Whose idea was it to hire a fortuneteller anyway?” Loren asks.