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)
“Well, you can hardly blame ‘most people,’ Josh—you’ve got a truly kissable ass.”
He grins. “Thanks to the ‘YOLO’ stamped on it—which, I’m telling you is gonna be all the rage one of these days, mark my words.”
I laugh. “Keep telling yourself that, Playboy, if it helps you look yourself in the eye every day.”
His blue eyes are positively sparkling at me right now. “Your drink is coming right up, Party Girl.”
“Thanks.”
“My extreme pleasure.”
25
KAT
Ifeel myself literally swoon as Joshua William Faraday exits the living room to fetch us another round of drinks. That man is so freaking charming, and so freaking hot, and so freaking funny and adorable and sweet and generous and sexy (and I could go on and on), it’s just not fair. I feel like I’m playing tennis against Roger Federer armed with nothing but a fly swatter.
I can’t remember the last time I felt like this—so gooey and heart-fluttery and fairytale-believe-y and emotional. I’ve got to get a grip on myself, slow my shit the fuck down. Tap into Classic Kat for a while. Jeez. My feelings are moving too effing fast, especially considering whom I’m dealing with here.
Oh my God, I’m losing it. Falling hard.
This is so unlike me. I’m never the one chasing the guy—I’m always the one being chased. I’m the one who says, “I’m not sure I’m feeling it, sorry,” and then he says, “Well, then, baby, lemme try to convince you.” Isn’t that exactly what Cameron said? Yep. After one date, he was ready to chase me to the ends of the earth, God knows why.
And that’s the way I like it. I like being chased. What the hell did Josh tell Henn when he was being “Hitch” and teaching Henn to “dick it up”? I scoff out loud at the memory, even though I’m sitting here alone in this room. “Women think they wanna be chased,” Josh said, “that’s what all the movies and books tell ’em they want—but they don’t. Not really. If you do the equivalent of driving to her house and holding a boom box over your head, you might as well hand her your dick and balls in a Ziplock baggie, too, ’cause you’re not gonna need ’em any more.”
What a big ol’ bunch of bullshit. Of course, we wanna be chased. Idiot.
And, yet, here I am, aching for him, ready to hand him my whole heart and soul, aren’t I? And he’s the one who always pulls back.
I look up at the ceiling. What the hell have I gotten myself into with this man? Is he even capable of giving his heart to me—at least at some point? If I break down and make the depths of my feelings known to him, would he be thrilled or scared to death?
I lean back on the couch and squeeze my cheeks, pondering the situation.
Oh damn. I can’t feel my face.
My gut tells me he’d be scared to fucking death. Maybe thrilled, too—but his fight or flight instinct would surely kick in. It’s just too soon. A guy like him needs more time. Heck, a girl like me needs more time. Usually. I truly don’t know what the fuck is happening to me. Where the hell is shallow, hedonistic, meaningless-sex-seeker Classic Kat when I need her?
As I glance around the room, lost in my thoughts, a small, framed photo on a table catches my eye. I can’t make out the image from this distance, so I get up to take a closer look.
When I pick the photo up, I can see it’s a faded shot of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman sitting in a wicker love seat with two tousled little boys—all three of them tanned and windswept and bursting with what appears to be authentic joy. The smiles on their glowing faces aren’t canned “say cheese” grins—these people are bursting with genuine down-to-their-bones happiness. I can almost hear their ghostly peals of laughter rising up from the image.
God, it pains me to think what happened to this poor woman shortly after this photo was taken. Oh, and her poor little boys. I scrutinize the boys’ faces in the photo, tears welling up in my eyes. I know Josh and Jonas are fraternal twins, but they look virtually identical in this shot. It’d be impossible to tell them apart if it weren’t for Josh’s slightly darker hair.
Tears blur my vision.
It kills me to think about how devastated those boys must have been when their mommy was so unexpectedly and savagely ripped from their young lives.
I wipe my eyes, but it’s no use. I can’t seem to stop my emotions from overflowing out of me. I take a deep breath and try to stuff my emotions down. It’s suddenly hitting me full-force that the cute little boy in this picture—the one with the slightly darker hair—is standing in the next room, mixing me a drink, trying his earnest best on a daily basis to “overcome” everything he’s had to endure.