“Hands off,” I order. “No hanky panky.”
“Aw, you get in a pastel suit and you start acting like a grandma,” Caulter says, looking past me to his reflection in the mirror. “Even more than usual, I mean.”
“Ha ha.” My eyes trace down the length of him. “Are you supposed to be wearing a jacket?”
“Nope, just a collared shirt,” he says. “The stylist picked it out. Apparently I can't be too formal, you know. I’ve been told my brand is ‘tamed rebel’.”
I cringe. “Did she really say that? Is this the same stylist who picked out all the new clothes after you burned mine?"
"Same one," he says. "Not the panties, though. That was all my doing." He reaches for the hem of my dress, remarking more softly now, “Let me check to see if you’re wearing them.”
I swat his hand away, but he slides it between my legs. “Stop, seriously, we’re about to go down there. You shouldn’t even be in here.”
“We have time for a quickie,” he says I laugh. “Get away from me, asshole.”
He doesn't seem too put off by my rebuff, even as he pulls his hand back and smacks me lightly on the ass. “I picked out every single pair of those panties, by the way. The 'tamed rebel' thing is from your father's PR person or whoever she is, though."
“Mona,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She’s a tyrant.”
“She says I'm a tamed rebel,” he says. “It sounds exciting. Maybe I should mention who tamed me when we’re on camera.”
I swat at him, but he ducks out of the way, heading for the balcony door. “You’re a total rebel,” I say, watching him light a cigarette. “Are you seriously going to do that right before the interview?”
He blows smoke off the balcony but looks at me. “Do you want me to get through the interview?”
“Whatever,” I say. “As long as you play along.”
“I’ll play the good little step-brother,” he says. “But I’ll be undressing you the whole time with my eyes.”
I laugh. “I’m sure.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re downstairs in the library, of all locations. Which is pretty much the exact place I’ve fantasized about having to sit in front of a camera and answer questions about my relationship with my step-brother. I mean, it’s just fucking perfect.
“What happened to the living room?” I ask, as Mona ushers me to a seat, usurping whoever’s in actually in charge of the television show.
“The background in here is more suitable for a family interview,” she says as she adjusts the collar of my jacket.
Yes, of course. The place where Caulter and I broke a ladder while fucking is definitely suitable for a family interview.
I glance at Caulter, and he’s hiding a smile, the shithead. Argh. Caulter is going to love everything about this, especially my discomfort. We may be screwing, and I may not hate him with quite the fiery passion with which I used to, but that doesn’t mean he won’t take great pleasure in watching me writhe under the pressure.
Caulter likes to watch me squirm. The thought jumps into my head, immediately making me think about sex, and I try to push it away. Focus, Kate.
Mona slaps me on the thigh. “Knees together, crossed at the ankles. Sit up straight, lean slightly forward so the sofa doesn’t eat you.” She barks out her orders like a drill sergeant, before motioning impatiently for Caulter. “Caulter. Here.”
Whoever is actually in charge of the set up on the set gently intervenes, moving my father and Ella onto the sofa adjacent to us.
When the cameras roll, it’s three-two-one and smile and one big happy family. Meanwhile, my mind is nowhere near even listening to any of the questions directed at my father and Ella.
When the interviewer, a grandmotherly woman with a penchant for asking questions that make stars dissolve into tears, turns to Caulter and I, it's one softball after another. Did we know each other at Brighton? Did we get along? What are our plans after the summer?
We parrot the responses we've been given, smiling and being engaging, like two robot minions doing my father’s bidding.
On the surface, it’s uneventful. But I carefully avoid eye contact with Caulter, and choose my words like I’m stepping through a minefield. The questions that should be so easy to answer are now laden with a deeper meaning.
Of course we get along, I say. What I don’t say is that Caulter’s face was buried between my legs this morning before I even got out of bed. We get along very well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Caulter
“Get off the phone.” I step through the balcony door even though Kate waves me out, shaking her head. She turns to the side, like she’s trying to shield the phone from me, and says something I don’t quite catch, but I hear the tone of her voice, and that interests me. She’s irritated.
“I don’t think so,” she says, followed by silence. “Because do you remember the last time we went out?”