by Lauren Rowe
“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.”
“Really? Well, I don’t remember all that. All I remember is that she was smokin’ hot.”
“I thought you stopped watching by then?”
“I might have caught a couple episodes.” He laughs. “She was hot.”
“Still is. Saw a photo of her the other day. But, anyway, that’s just TV,” I concede. “Uncle Jessie’s wife doesn’t really count as spotting an actual wife in the wild, so your point is still well taken.”
“Well, tell me, then. You’ve observed the species, right?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve spotted a genuine wife scurrying in the bushes a time or two.”
“Well, enlighten me. Does your mom nag the shit out of your dad or what?”
“No. Never. My mom’s the coolest woman who ever lived—super happy and energetic and just sort of like, ‘If you’re not happy, then get yourself happy, motherfucker, and stop bitching.’”
“Does your mom actually use the words ‘motherfucker’ and ‘bitching’?”
“No, not unless she’s really mad—usually at Keane.” I laugh. “She’s much more likely to use words like ‘honey’ and ‘complaining’—but she’d say both in a really ‘motherfucker’ tone.”
Josh looks absolutely mesmerized right now. “Did your mom stay home with all you kids when you were little?”
“Yeah. But she always helped decorate people’s houses on the side. At first it was just her friends, and then it expanded to her friends’ friends. Nowadays, she’s got her own little interior decorating business and she absolutely loves it. In her spare time she cooks the most incredible food—the best turkey chili you’ve ever had, oh my God—oh, and her spaghetti sauce is next level, and her lasagna is to die for. I think she wishes her ancestors came from Italy instead of Sweden.” I laugh. “Oh, sorry, what was I saying? I get all excited when I talk about my mom’s food.”
“You were saying your mom doesn’t nag your dad.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. She doesn’t. She leaves him the hell alone and makes herself happy cooking incredible food and decorating people’s houses and going to her exercise classes. You should see my mom with her little five-pound weights, doing her classes at the gym. She’s such a little badass.”
He chuckles.
“Oh, and she plays Bunco with her friends, too.”
“What’s Bunco?”
“It’s this stupid dice game. It’s basically craps with wine. But I think the dice are just an excuse to get drunk. I can’t be sure of that, but that’s my strong hunch.”
Josh laughs. “I love your mom already.”
I bite my lip. I know Josh meant that comment as a throwaway—a figure of speech—but it made my heart flutter nonetheless.
“So do you cook like your mom?”
“Not really. She’s always wanted to teach me, but I’m too frickin’ lazy to learn. Dax is an awesome cook, though—he’s the one who always hangs out with Mom in the kitchen. And Colby cooks in the firehouse all the time, so he’s pretty good, too—but he only knows how to cook i
n quantities for ten guys.” I laugh. “Ryan’s adequate—a little better than me—but he makes the best guacamole. And Keane is freakin’ hopeless. The dude can’t boil water.”
“Well, thank God you’re at least better than Peen,” Josh says. “Or else I would have had to un-friend you.”
I grin. In one of our many conversations this past week, I told Josh a bunch of stories about my brothers, including several that showcased Keane (also known as “Peen” in our family) as the beloved fuck-up of our family.
“Hey, can I get you something to drink?” Josh asks.
“Thanks. Do you have sparkling water?”
“Club soda okay?”
“Yep, same-same. Thanks.”
Josh moves across his kitchen and pulls a couple glasses out of a cabinet. “Would you care for a little vodka in your club soda, Party Girl? I’ve got Belvedere and Absolut.”
I shrug. “Why the fuck not?”
Josh laughs. “Words to live by. Which one?”
“Surprise me. I feel like living on the edge.” I lean my butt against the counter.
“A girl after my own heart.” He grabs a bottle of Belvedere from a low cabinet. “So what do you guys call Dax?”
“Dax is actually his nickname, a contraction of David Jackson.”
“I didn’t realize that. Cool.” He fills the glasses with ice. “And Colby?”
“Cheese.”
“Well, shit. That’s not fair. You’re Jizz and Kum Shot and Baby Gravy and Keane is Peen, but Colby gets to be something as G-rated as ‘Cheese’?” He pours vodka into the glasses. “Not fair.”
“Oh, it all evens out in the end,” I say, enjoying the view of Josh’s ass as he bends over to grab something from his fridge. “No one gets off easy in my family, I assure you. We all get raked over the coals somehow, just in different ways.”
Josh closes his fridge, a bottle of something in his hands. “What about Ryan?”
“Ryan is RUM, Bacardi, Captain, Captain Morgan.”
“Oh yeah, you said that in your application.” He grins. “Ryan Ulysses Morgan.”
“That’s right.” I grin. “Sometimes, when he’s dressed up to go out—which he is a lot—he’s ‘Scion’ or ‘Pretty Boy.’ Ry is basically you if he had a much bigger budget to work with.”
“I like him already.”
“You would, trust me. You’d love him. He’s perfectly groomed and put together at all times, slays it with the ladies, charm oozing out his pores. The other guys ride him mercilessly for how pretty he is and how much he cares about his appearance. I can only imagine how much shit my brothers would give you if they ever met you.”
Josh chuckles. “Well, thanks for the heads up. I’ll make sure to dress down when I meet your brothers. I’ll take a page out of Jonas’ book and go with a T-shirt and jeans.”
“Aw, come on now, Josh—don’t go changin’ to try to please ’em. You just do you, baby.” I pause. I really shouldn’t say what I’m thinking. But I can’t help myself. “So are you thinking you might wanna meet my family one of these days?”
Josh’s cheeks flush. He swallows hard. “Um. Yeah.” He busies himself with our drinks again, his body language suddenly verging on robotic. “Maybe.”
I laugh out loud. This man is a raging head case.
“No pressure, Josh,” I say, genuinely amused by his suddenly anxious body language. The man is visibly twitching. “I brought it up just to watch you squirm. No worries.” I should leave it at that. I really should. But, no. When it comes to Joshua William Faraday, I simply can’t help myself. “But, um, actually,” I begin, trying really, really hard to sound easy-breezy-Cover-Girl. “Colby’s birthday is next weekend. My mom’s gonna make her famous spaghetti and Dax is gonna make carrot cake—Colby’s favorite meal.” I clear my throat. “Super chill. Just the fam. You’d be welcome to join us for dinner, if you... happen to be... in Seattle. But if not, then no pressure, of course.” Oh shit. What am I doing? Even as the words tumble out of my mouth, I know they’re a horrifically bad idea. I should know by now: Josh is perfectly fine when we’re enjoying each other in the here and now, but the minute I start talking about the future, he breaks into a frickin’ cold sweat. I quickly wave at the air like what I’ve just said is the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. “Actually, pretend I never said any of that,” I mumble. “I’m just kidding. Again.”
Josh remains focused on the drinks he’s making. Notably, he doesn’t turn around and say, “Don’t be silly, Kat—that’s a great idea!” He just continues silently mixing our drinks, his back to me.
Holy hell, this is awkward. Why did I say all that? I really should know by now that pinning Josh down to anything even remotely relating to the future is a nonstarter.
“A twist of lime?” Josh finally says, his back still facing me.
I look down at my hands, heat rising in my cheeks. After everything I just said, that’s what Josh asks me? If I want a lime in my drink? I really should have known. I’m such an idiot.
“Um. Sure,” I say. “A twist of lime would be amazing.” Oh boy, that last bit came out way bitchier than I’d intended.
But Josh seems to be unfazed by my bitchiness (which seems to be par for the course with him, thankfully). He turns to face me and clears his throat. “Colby’s birthday dinner sounds great,” he says, his jaw muscles tight. “Thanks for the invitation. I’d love to go.” He tries to smile. He’s not successful, but he’s trying.
My heart leaps into my mouth.
Holy I Think I Just Harpooned a Whale, Batman.
“Tell the truth,” I say. “The only reason you wanna come is Dax’s carrot cake.”
Josh laughs. “How did you know? Yeah, I’ve always had a soft spot for carrot cake.”
“And cheesecake,” I say, remembering our scarf-out the night we helped Henn in Las Vegas.
“You remember.”
“Of course. I remember everything you’ve told me, Josh.”
There’s a long beat.
“Actually, Daxy makes a great cheesecake, too. It’s just as good as his carrot cake. I’ll see if he’ll do both.”
Josh’s blue eyes darken to sapphire. “No, don’t. I’ll bring one from a bakery. No reason to make him think I’m a pain in the ass right from the get-go.” He bites his lip. “So, hey, now that I’m coming up to Seattle next weekend, how about we check off one of your fantasies while I’m there? There’s one specifically I think I could pull off better in Seattle than here.”
My heart is absolutely racing. “Great,” I squeak out, trying not to sound as thrilled as I feel. “Sounds good.” I cross my arms over my chest and quickly uncross them. Crap. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands.
“Cool,” Josh says. He turns back around to face the drinks on the counter. “Just let me know the date so I can put it on my calendar.”
“Yeah, I will,” I say, my heart pounding in my ears. “Colby’s birthday is the fourth. Not sure if we’re doing it on his actual birthday or another night. I’ll let you know.”
“Cool. Sounds good. Assuming I don’t have a work commitment that night, of course.”
“Oh, of course.”
Josh lets out a long exhale and then glides across the kitchen and hands me my drink. “Here you go, Party Girl.” He flashes a megawatt grin, relieved of his earlier inability to maneuver his mouth into a smile. “I added just a touch of cranberry to the soda for you. Hope that’s okay.”
“Great.” I take a sip. “Yummalicious. What else is in there?”
“The tiniest splash of grapefruit juice, just to take the edge off the cranberry.”
“Oh, kinda like a Sea Breeze plus soda.”
“Exactly.”
“I like it. Thank you.” I take another sip. “Ooph. That’s a strong drink.”
“Go big or go home, I always say.” He winks. “Come on, PG. Let’s go chill out in the living room.”
Sixty-Five
Kat
We amble out
of the kitchen, drinks in hand, into the living room—and I settle myself onto the black leather couch while Josh chooses some music for our listening pleasure.
“So how long have your parents been married?” Josh asks, fiddling with his laptop.
“Thirty years this August.”
He looks up from what he’s doing, obviously astonished. “Wow. That’s crazy.”
“Yeah. Pretty crazy.”
A song begins playing through Josh’s sound system—a male vocalist backed by an acoustic guitar.
“What is this?” I ask, somewhat surprised by Josh’s song selection. I’d have pegged him to play us something with a thumping beat.
“James Bay,” he says. “‘Scars.’ Jonas had it on the other day when I was with him in New York and it slayed me. I bought the guy’s whole album on the spot and every song is phenomenal.” Josh sits down next to me and puts his hand on my thigh. “This James Bay guy sings with his soul.”
“That’s a great description.”
Josh sips his drink and listens to the music for a moment. “So, thirty years, huh? Are your parents happily married?”
I’m shocked he’s asking questions about my family. “Definitely,” I say, my skin suddenly buzzing.
“Even after thirty years?”
“Well, I’m sure they’ve both wanted to murder each other more than once over the years. But, yeah, they’re still totally in love. More so than ever, I think. I like being around them—they’re nice to each other. They still laugh at each other’s jokes.”
“Wow.” He looks deep in thought.
I take a deep breath. I shouldn’t ask the question rolling around in my head—I really shouldn’t. But I can’t help myself. “So, are you gonna be like Reed, you think? Are you gonna ride off into the sunset alone and unencumbered by messy human emotion?”
Josh looks taken aback by my question. “Uh, wow.” He makes a weird face. “Is that what Reed said? I didn’t interpret it quite that way.” He makes a face. “But, um, yeah, I don’t really envision myself getting married, if that’s what you’re asking.”