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 looks like I’ve just tweaked his nipple. Hard.
“Joshua?” I coax. “What kind of Cabernet are we talking about here, babe?”
Josh purses his lips. “Goddammit, Kat. I can’t be expected to follow your stupid rules. I am what I am.”
I laugh. “Did you buy it or get it from your uncle?”
“I bought it. And it didn’t cost even close to eight thousand bucks, I promise. We’re good.”
“If it’s more than a hundred bucks, it’s too much, baby. I’m sorry.”
Josh makes a face but doesn’t speak.
“It’s more than a hundred bucks, isn’t it?”
He nods. “But only slightly. How ’bout we give it to her and not mention its pedigree? We’ll just let her think it’s some Australian red I got at Whole Foods on the way here.”
“How much, Josh?”
He shrugs. “Four.”
I squint. “Hundred?”
He shakes his head.
“Josh!”
Josh makes an absolutely adorable face.
I point at his car. “Put it in the Lamborghini with the Scotch,” I say. “Jesus God, man. Have you no common sense?” But even as the words come out of my mouth, I glance at his ridiculous car that probably cost as much as a condo and feel like I just answered my own question.
Josh laughs. “Babe, but this particular Cabernet’s a really great vintage.”
I shake my head. “Oh my God, you’re so out of touch, it’s scary. You can’t give my mom a four-thousand-dollar bottle of wine, honey. I’m sorry. You’re a sweetheart, you really are, but you’re insane.”
“Shit,” Josh says, looking bummed. “Fine.” He grabs the wine from me and hands me the pie, and then traipses to his car, exhaling in resignation as he goes. “Sorry,” he says when he returns to me on the walkway again. “I was just trying to...” He trails off and doesn’t finish his sentence. He shrugs.
“I know what you were trying to do,” I say. “But it’s too much.”
Josh twists his mouth. “Douchey?”
I kiss him. “Not at all. Sweet.” I kiss him again. “God, I love you.”
Josh grins into my lips. “Say that again.”
“I love you,” I whisper.
Josh nuzzles my nose. “One more time.”
“I love you,” I coo. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Infinity.”
“I love you, too,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m good now. Momentary blip. I’m ready to get in there and give ’em the Playboy Razzle-Dazzle.”
“They won’t know what hit ’em, baby,” I whisper.
“That’s right,” he says. He glances toward the house, unmistakable anxiety flickering across his face. “The Josh Faraday charm-bomb’s about to go off all over your family’s unsuspecting asses.” He swallows hard. “Ka-boom, baby. Let’s do this shit.”
Twenty-Three
Kat
I was wrong. Ryan’s not Josh’s spirit animal—he’s his soul mate. Watching them meet was like watching one of those movies where the hero and heroine see each other across a crowded room and everyone else instantly fades away. It was insta-love of the highest order. But, just in case anyone hadn’t caught on to the immediate connection, there was no missing it when, not twenty minutes after Josh and I had entered the house, Ryan invited Josh to play foosball in the garage.
The way it went down was like this: We were all gabbing amiably in the family room, talking about I don’t know what. And even Colby, laid out with his leg in a cast and his arm in a sling and his dog Ralph by his side, was chatting Josh up. And that’s when my Dad asked Josh how a Seattle boy wound up living in L.A.
“I went to UCLA and wound up staying down there after graduation to open a satellite branch of my family’s business,” Josh answered.
“Were you in a fraternity at UCLA?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah,” Josh answered. “I lived in the house my first two years. I didn’t get a whole lot of studying done, but I got really good at foosball.”
And that was it. Cupid’s arrow had struck. Ryan lifted his head like a meerkat on the African plains, little red and pink hearts twinkling where his pupils should have been.
“Oh-no-he-di’n’t,” I said.
“Here we go,” Dad said.
“Oh, it’s on,” Dax agreed.
Poor Josh looked perplexed, clearly not aware of the Pandora’s Box he’d just opened.
“We have a foosball table in our garage,” I explained. “It was a Christmas gift from Ryan to my parents years ago—”
“Which was actually a present to himself,” Dax added.
“And now our family’s sort of obsessed with it,” I said. “It’s kind of our family’s thing.”
“Oh,” Josh said. “Well, I haven’t actually played foosball in forever.”
“No excuses,” Ryan said, leaping up from the couch. “You and me, Josh.” He motioned to Dax and me. “We’re gonna kick the Wonder Twins’ asses.”
“Aw, come on,” Dax said. “Don’t make me play with Jizz.”
“Hey now,” I said. But that’s all I could muster. I’m the worst foosball player in our family (other than Mom, of course), and everyone knows it, including me.