Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I laugh. “Josh, this is a frickin’ gourmet kitchen. Wolfgang Puck would kill for a kitchen like this.”
“Yeah, I figured a gourmet kitchen would add value on resale, and I was right.” He shifts his weight. “I mean, it... will. Add. Value. Whenever the time comes.”
Josh suddenly looks like he feels sick. I don’t understand the expression on his face. He’s grimacing like he’s in pain.
“Well, if you don’t cook at all, then how do you feed yourself?”
“Um,” he says. “I... uh... I go out with friends or get food delivered. Sometimes, if I’m exhausted, I just make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Speaking of which, are you hungry? I can make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that’s so good, it’ll make you come.”
“Wow. That sounds like quite a PB&J.”
“Oh, it is.”
“I’ll definitely have to take a rain check. Every girl should try an orgasm-inducing PB&J at least once. But I’m still pretty stuffed from all the food we had at the hotel. Those crab cakes really hit the spot.”
“Especially after we’d worked up such an appetite.” He snickers. “Good times were had by all at the ol’ Four Seasons, eh?”
“Well, good times were had by two out of three of us, anyway.” I join him in snickering.
Ah, that was delicious. Just as Josh predicted, Bridgette was long gone when we emerged from the bedroom, and she’d left a delightful text for Josh as a parting gift, too: “Fuck you, Faraday,” Bridgette’s angry text said—and I’m purring even now remembering the gleeful expression on Josh’s face when he showed it to me. “Lose my number, motherfucker. But tell your hot girlfriend I’ll happily comfort her after you’ve dumped her ass and broken her heart. Auf wiedersehen, arschloch. P.S. I hope she gives you herpes.”
Josh and I laughed pretty hard about Bridgette’s text.
“Battery acid in her heart, indeed,” I said when I read it.
“I told you,” Josh said.
The only thing more enjoyable than reading that text from Bridgette was seeing the look on her face when Josh abruptly changed the plan and dragged me into the bedroom, hell-bent on keeping me all to himself. Delicious.
I’m suddenly aware Josh has been talking while I’ve been lost in my thoughts.
“... and since I’ve been home from New York,” Josh is saying, “a delivery service has been bringing me gourmet meals every few days.” He grabs my hand, leads me to his refrigerator, and opens the door to reveal four neatly stacked see-through containers. “Nothing but lean proteins and greens. Everything low in saturated fats; no simple carbs; all calorie counts precisely calibrated for my weight and fitness goals. All courtesy of the one and only Jonas Patrick Faraday.”
“Jonas orders your meals?”
Josh rolls his eyes. “He kept giving me shit about my burgers and fries and Doritos and I was like, ‘Dude, I travel too much to think about eating right all the time—leave me the fuck alone.’ Next thing I knew, these meals started showing up.” He chuckles. “The dude’s like having a fucking wife, I swear to God—he’s such a nag. I haven’t eaten any of ’em yet as an act of protest.”
“Is that what you think a wife does? She nags her husband about what he eats?”
“Yeah, you know, like that cliché line? ‘Take my wife, please.’”
I roll my eyes. “Wives get such a bad rap.”
“Well, shit, I dunno. I have no idea what a wife does—I’ve never actually witnessed one in its natural habitat.”
“Are we talking about a human or a water buffalo?”
Josh chuckles. “Cut me some slack. My mom died when I was little; my uncle’s wife died before I was born; and my best friends are either single or in what I’d call non-permanent relationships.”
I make a face. I didn’t mean to be insensitive about Josh growing up without a mom or any maternal influences. I didn’t even think about that when I made my snarky comment.
“Plus,” Josh adds, seemingly unfazed by my comment, “and most importantly: there were no wives on Full House.”
“I’m sorry, Josh,” I say softly. “I didn’t think. I keep forgetting.”
He waves his hands like I’m totally missing his point. “Forgetting what? It is what it is. Long time ago. No worries. I’m just saying I’ve never witnessed an actual wife up close, that’s all. I don’t know what women are really like if you actually live with one.”
I’m suddenly starkly aware of just how different my childhood was from Josh’s. I can’t wrap my head around how disconnected and isolating—and masculine—his upbringing must have been. No wonder he has no freaking idea about marriage and relationships.
“Lori Loughlin,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Lori Loughlin. She played Uncle Jessie’s wife in the later seasons of Full House.”
“Oh yeah,” Josh says. “I forgot about her. I kinda stopped watching by then.”
“Oh. Well, she didn’t nag. She was happy and funny and supportive. That’s what a real wife is like.”