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)
Not her. Not her. Not her. I’m dying here. I shove the bouquet of red roses I’m holding under my nose and inhale deeply, trying to calm myself down with a little aromatherapy. Where the fuck is she? She was seated in the first-class cabin on the plane—so she should be one of the first people off the flight. Is she waiting to de-board just to prolong my torture a bit more? Motherfucker, I’m dying here.
Oh, good God, no—I just had a horrible thought: could Kat possibly have missed her flight? Or worse, did she decide not to come to visit me, after all? Oh God, that would crush me. In all honesty, it might even kill me at this point—I’m just that desperate to see her.
All I did this past week was play and replay our post-karaoke conversation in my head—only not the real conversation as it truly happened, but a revised, fantasy-version in which Kat said, “My heart’s on the line, Josh,” and I smoothly took her into my arms and replied, “My heart’s on the line, too, babe.” If only I’d said that, maybe things would be different now.
My heart stops. Oh, thank God. There she is. Katherine Ulla Morgan. The one and only. My unicorn. Long legs. Golden mane. Head held high. Just the sight of her jumpstarts my aching heart and makes me feel half-alive for the first time in five days.
“Kat!” I yell. I wave at her. “Kat!”
She looks toward the sound of my voice and her eyes light up when she spots me. Oh my God, I feel euphoric. She’s here. Thank God. She didn’t leave me for good. My heart can beat again. Everything’s gonna be okay.
“Kat,” I say when she reaches me.
But she looks upset. She’s pressing her lips together. Her face is tight. Her eyes are moist.
I hand her the flower bouquet, wrap her in my arms, and kiss her deeply, crushing the flowers between us. Oh my fuck, she tastes like heaven. Minty. Like she just brushed her teeth. I press myself into her and devour her lips, feeling like a junkie who’s finally, blissfully, blessedly getting his next fix.
When we finally pull away from each other, Kat’s eyes are dark with desire and I’m hard as a rock.
“Josh,” Kat breathes, her cheeks flushed. She licks her lips and tilts her face up like she wants another kiss.
I put my fingertip under her chin. “I know we’ve got a shit-ton to talk about, but please give me one night to—”
“We have nothing to talk about,” Kat says curtly, cutting me off.
I shoot her a look of blatant skepticism.
“I’m serious, Josh,” Kat says. “From this day forward, all I wanna do is be in the moment with you. No talking about the future. No talking about our feelings. Just kiss me and let’s pretend this past week never happened.”
Four
Kat
“Scrabble?” I ask. “Not quite what I was expecting as our first activity of the weekend.”
Josh puts the game box on his dining room table and crosses his arms over his muscled chest—and much to my surprise, he’s not flashing a smart-ass smirk. In fact, he looks completely earnest. “You were upset we never do normal, real-life stuff like play board games—so that’s what we’re gonna do. All. Weekend. Long. You want real life? You think I’m addicted to excitement, and not to you, personally? Fine. This entire weekend, I’m gonna be every bit as boring as Boring Blane or Cameron Fucking Schulz. No booze. No weed. No poker chips. No ‘numbing the pain of my tortured soul.’”
Ah, there it is—he flashes the smart-ass smirk I was expecting a moment ago.
“From here on out,” Josh continues, “I’m all about Scrabble and Monopoly and adamantly not trying to escape the pain of reality in any way.”
My mind is racing with a thousand emotions all at once, but the one that seems to be rising to the top of the heap is relief. The entire plane ride to Los Angeles, I was stressed out, wondering how the heck I was gonna deflect attention away from my newfound aversion to alcohol—I am the Party Girl with a Hyphen, after all—and now, in an unexpected turn of events, Josh has just made club soda this weekend’s beverage of mutual choice.
“But... we’re seriously gonna play Scrabble?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Yeah,” Josh says, spreading the game tiles onto the table. “We’re gonna find out if we’re every bit as addicted to each other when we’re playing a board game as when we’re saving the world or smoking weed or drinking martinis or fucking in a sex dungeon. I’m willing to bet anything we will be—but, apparently, you’re not convinced. So, here we go.”
“I’m not convinced? Are you on crack? You’re the one who didn’t want me to know you’re moving to Seattle.”