Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Josh, sorry to bug you,” Theresa says. A couple movers walk between us holding one of my black leather couches, and she pauses to let them pass before speaking. “The interior designer asked if we could move our consultation at the new house from Wednesday to the following Monday? She’s got a family emergency.”
After six years of running my life, Theresa surely must know what I’m going to say in response to her question. But, okay, I’ll say it anyway. “If I happen to be in town on Monday, I’ll be there,” I reply. “If not, handle it for me. Just make the house look the way I like it—masculine, sleek, expensive, and in good taste—like it popped out of a glossy magazine.”
“Okeedoke,” Theresa says. “Gotcha.”
I look down at my laptop again.
“Just one more thing,” Theresa says.
I look up, annoyed.
“Your cars won’t arrive at the new house until Tuesday at the earliest. So I went ahead and rented you a Ferrari 458 until then. It’ll be sitting in your garage when you arrive in Seattle. Keys on your kitchen counter. I’ve arranged a limo to pick you up from the airport.”
I nod and look back down at my laptop. I have no idea what Theresa just said. I think she said she rented me a Ferrari, but I’m not sure. I can’t think. I can’t track. Shit. I can’t eat or sleep or breathe. I’m losing my fucking mind. Kat, Kat, Kat. She’s all I can think about. I’m drowning in an all-consuming ache. I need to see her. Touch her. Fuck her. Smell her. Bite her. Spank her. I’m dying. I actually think I might literally be dying. This week has been goddamned fucking hell.
“Hey, Miss Rodriguez?” one of the moving guys asks. “Sorry to bug ya, but is this painting—”
“Yes, that’s one of the items that was purchased by the new owner and will stay with the house,” Theresa says, hopping up from her stool with obvious exasperation. “Put that painting down and come with me. I’m gonna show you which artwork stays and which goes again.”
My phone buzzes with an incoming text and I look down.
Kat.
My heart leaps. This is the first time all week Kat’s instigated contact with me.
“Hi, Josh,” Kat writes. “Just finished my doctor’s appointment. Attaching a video of the sonogram. XOXO Kat. P.S. I told Sarah about the baby at lunch and she went to the appointment with me. Sorry. It just slipped out.” She attaches a blushing-face emoji. “P.P.S. I’d strongly advise you NEVER send me into war with any classified information. Oh, and Sarah says she won’t tell Jonas about the baby—she’ll leave that to you. But she says you better tell your brother he’s going to be an uncle soon—because even though Sarah’s not nearly as big a blabbermouth as me (but who is?), she’s still only human.”
I shake my head. It’s so Kat to insist we hold off telling Jonas and Sarah about the pregnancy until after their wedding and then go right ahead and blab about it to Sarah not five minutes later. I press play on the video, still shaking my head, completely annoyed.
“Doctor,” Sarah’s voice says, “will you explain what’s onscreen for the baby’s father?”
My entire body jolts at Sarah’s use of the word “father.” Holy fuck. Sarah’s referring to me.
The doctor explains what’s onscreen, including pointing out a flicker she says is the baby’s heartbeat—what the fuck?—the baby’s got a heartbeat already?—and when the doctor’s finished talking, the camera pans to Kat.
Kat.
Oh my God.
My heart wrenches at the sight of her. She’s lying on an examination table, her blouse pulled up, her golden hair splayed around her head—and her eyes looking as sad and lackluster as I’ve ever seen them. Oh my God. My heart’s absolutely breaking at the pitiful, lonely, tortured look in Kat’s beautiful blue eyes.
Instantly, all the anger I’ve been feeling toward Kat this week evaporates into thin air. I can’t get over how unhappy my gorgeous Party Girl looks—and utterly exhausted, too. Clearly, she’s not well. She’s still hot as hell, of course—she’s Katherine Ulla Morgan, after all—but I’ve never seen Kat look quite so ragged. So vulnerable. So fucking miserable. Even when she was hung-over and functioning on three hours of sleep in Vegas, even when she was scared to death to walk into a bank and impersonate a Ukrainian pimpstress, even when she found out I didn’t tell her about my move to Seattle, Kat never looked quite the way she does in this video.
“Hi, Josh,” Kat says toward the camera, waving half-heartedly. “Well, it looks like our accidental Faraday is a stubborn little thing—surprise, surprise! I guess he or she’s decided they’re not going anywhere, after all.” Emotion overwhelms her all of a sudden. She wipes her eyes. “I’m really sorry, Josh,” Kat says, her voice wobbling.