The Josh and Kat Trilogy: A Bundle of Books 1-3

by Lauren Rowe

  I sit primly with my hands in my lap as Josh moves around the back of the car and opens my door.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say as Josh helps me out of the car and escorts me toward my parents’ front door. “Glenfarclas 1955,” I say, reading the label on the box of Scotch in my hand. “I know nothing about Scotch. Is that a good one? ”

  Josh lets out a little puff of air. “Yeah.”

  I stop short. That little air-puff raised the hair on the nape of my neck. “Hang on,” I say.

  Josh stops. “What?”

  “How good?” I ask.

  “How good what?”

  “How good a bottle of Scotch is this?”

  “Good. You said your dad loves Scotch, so I got him something I was sure he’d really like.”

  “Oh, jeez.”

  “What?”

  “Josh. Honey. Your idea of a ‘good’ Scotch is gonna be different than the average person’s.”

  Josh looks at me blankly.

  “Josh, how much did this bottle of Scotch cost?”

  He opens his mouth and closes it.

  “Josh?”

  “It cost me nothing. My uncle gave it to me from his private collection.”

  “Your uncle . . ? Oh, shit. Josh, what’s it worth?”

  Josh winces. “Well, okay, it’s a little on the extravagant side, I’ll admit that—but not too bad. Not, like, crazy. I just wanted to be sure it’d be something your dad would really like.”

  “How much is a little extravagant, honey? Gimme a number.”

  “Don’t forget this is a special occasion. I’ll never again meet your parents for the first time. I just wanted to make a good impression.”

  My heart’s racing. “Josh, you’re freaking me out. How much is it worth?”

  “Eight.”

  I inhale sharply. “Eight hundred dollars?”

  Josh looks as guilty as sin.

  “Eight hundred bucks for a bottle of Scotch?” I ask again slowly, incredulous.

  Josh doesn’t reply, but he looks like he just confessed to murder.

  “Josh, you can’t give my father an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch—especially not the first time you meet him.”

  Josh grimaces.

  “It was such a sweet thought, honey, but you’re gonna freak him out and make him think you’re some sort of eccentric tycoon or something—like, who’s that hermit-guy with airplanes?”

  “Howard Hughes.”

  “Yes. My dad’s gonna think you’re Howard Hughes—or, worse, he’s gonna think you’re trying to buy his affection.”

  Josh winces like I’ve punched him in the stomach. “Shit. I just wanted to give your dad something he’d really, really like.”

  “I know, babe, but it’s too extravagant. I’m sorry.”

  Josh exhales. “Well, shit.” He looks crestfallen. “If an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch is too extravagant to give your dad, then I really screwed the pooch here.”

  I pause, processing what Josh is trying to say. “It’s not an eight-hundred-dollar bottle?” I ask.

  Josh shakes his head.

  “Oh, Josh,” I say gasping. “Eight thousand?”

  He nods. “I called my uncle to ask for a recommendation and he insisted on sending me a bottle of the good stuff from his private collection.”

  “Oh my God. Josh. If my dad knew how much that bottle was worth, he’d never open it. He’d sell it and finally take my mom to Hawaii, instead.”

  Josh’s face lights up. “Your parents have never been to Hawaii? What about your brothers? Do you think they’d like to go, too?”

  “Josh, focus. You’re not taking the entire Morgan clan to Hawaii. We’re talking about Scotch.”

  Josh laughs. “You read my mind.”

  “I know I did.”

  “It’d be fun, though, wouldn’t it?”

  I laugh. “You’re crazy.”

  “I know I am. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun.”

  “Oh, it’d definitely be fun,” I say.

  “Maybe after Colby’s feeling better and the baby’s born we could take a big family trip to celebrate both?”

  I smile. This is the first time I’ve heard Josh make future plans. “Maybe.” I bite my lip, my heart bursting. “That would be incredible.”

  “Then we’ll do it. It’s a plan.”

  “I love you, Josh.”

  I’ve never seen Josh smile quite so big. “God, I love it when you say that,” he says. “I love you, too.”

  My entire body’s tingling. “Well, you’ve artfully distracted me, my darling Playboy. I was telling you to put the Scotch in the car.”

  Josh’s facial expression morphs from elation to disappointment. “I’d hate to meet your dad empty-handed.”

  “You’re not empty-handed, babe—you’ve got pie and wine and flowers. That’s plenty. Maybe you can give my Dad an eight-thousand-dollar bottle of Scotch to celebrate him becoming a grandfather when the baby comes. You know, once he already loves you and knows you’re not a hermit-tycoon-weirdo.”

  Josh’s shoulders droop. “Okay.”

  I hand Josh the Scotch and he hands me the wine bottle to hold in return. “I’ll be right back,” he says, turning around and heading toward the car.

  “Hang on,” I say, the hair on my neck standing up again.

  Josh stops and looks at me expectantly.

  “What about this, Playboy?” I ask, holding up the wine bottle.

  Josh waves me off. “Oh, that’s just, you know, a Cabernet.”

  “Mmm hmm. Just a Cabernet?”

  “Yep.”

  He’s not fooling me for a minute—he looks guilty as hell. “Like, you mean the kind of Cabernet someone could pick up at Whole Foods for twenty bucks?” I ask. “Or, maybe if they really wanna splurge, for like, fifty?”

  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.”

  One Hundred Five

  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.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll play a second game and switch up the teams,” Ryan assured Dax. “If need be, I’ll get stuck with Jizz the second game.”

  “Hey,” I said again.

  But Ryan just laughed.

  “You need help, Mom?” Dax called to Mom in the kitchen.

  “Nope! Dinner will be on the table in thirty!” Mom called back, prompting the four of us to grab our drinks and barrel into the garage, leaving Dad and Colby on the couch, semi-watching a baseball game.

  As it turned out, Ryan and Josh soundly kicked the Wonder Twins’ asses in the first game, and, in the second game, after poor Josh was saddled with me (because Dax shoved me at him and screamed “You take her, for the love of God!”), my team lost again.

  “Are you starting to see a pattern here, Kum Shot?” Ryan teased after my second loss. “Now let’s think. Who was the common player on both losing teams?”

  “Hardy har,” I replied, feigning annoyance. But I wasn’t annoyed. Not even a little bit. In fact, I was walking on air, despite my two foosball losses. Because despite how much I typically abhor losing at anything, I felt like I’d just gained something a whole lot better than a couple of stinkin’ foosball victories: I’d gained my brothers’ approval of the man I love.

  Holy shitballs, Ryan must have slapped Josh on the back at least five times during our first game and high-fived him another ten. And in the second game, when Ryan and Josh were on opposing teams, Ryan floored me by doing the one thing that conveys matriculation into the Morgan clan more than anything else: he christened Josh with a stupid nickname.

  “Aw, come on, Lambo,” Ryan teased when Josh failed to guard against one of Ryan’s many goals. “You can do better than that.”

  “Eh, you got lucky, Captain,” Josh shot back easily.

  My heart stopped. I looked at Dax, ready to share a look of pure elation, but Dax’s gaze was fixed squarely on Josh.

  “I thought you said you actually knew how to play this game, Hollywood,” Dax zinged at Josh. “Pfft.”

  Josh laughed. “You best not be talking any smack, Whippersnapper—or else it’s gonna come back to bite you in your rock-star ass.”

  And that was that. My brothers had made their feelings about Josh crystal clear—and Josh had returned their affection in no uncertain terms. Just like that, it was two Morgans down, four to go (or, rather, two Morgans down, three to go, since we all know Keane’s vote doesn’t matter).

  And now, having finished our two foosball games, the four of us are walking into the family room, laughing and teasing each other as we go, joining Dad and Colby (and Colby’s boxer Ralph) on seats around the TV.

  “Oh, yeah!” Colby shouts at the television. “Come on, baby! Come on!”

  I settle myself onto Josh’s lap in a big armchair and glance at the TV, just in time to see the center fielder for the Twins run back, back, back—and then watch helplessly as a long-ball disappears over the center-field fence.

  “And that ball is gone, baby,” Ryan says.

  Colby and Dad shout with glee and the camera cuts to... Cameron Schulz, the All-Star shortstop for the Mariners, rounding second-base and fist-pumping the air.

  At the sight of Cameron, I stiffen on Josh’s lap and look down, hoping against hope he’s somehow, through the grace of God, not looking at the TV right now.

  “And Cameron Schulz smashes a three-run homer to put the Mariners ahead of the Twins three-two in the bottom of the third,” the TV announcer says, just in case Josh isn’t paying attention to what’s happening onscreen. “That was Cameron Schulz’s twelfth homer of the season after a ten-game drought.”

  At the mention of Cameron’s name on the TV, I glance at Josh to find him shooting me a look that can only be described as homicidal.

  I bite my lip.

  “Schulz is sucking ass this season,” Dax says. He flashes me a snarky look, clearly reminding me he knows Cameron’s penis was once lodged deep inside me.

  I shoot Dax a look in reply that unequivocally warns him not to say or do a goddamned thing to give my secret away or else I will cut him.

  “Yeah,” Ryan says. “The guy’s having a shitty-ass year. Glad he finally did something to earn his big, fat paycheck.”

  Dax opens his mouth to say something but I shoot him daggers again, and he shuts it—for a nanosecond, that is—and then he opens it again. “I heard the guy’s juiced up,” Dax says, smirking at me. “I bet he’s got a tiny little peepee.”

  I squint at him.

  “Well, if that guy’s on ’roids, he should fire his dealer,” Ryan says, swigging his beer. “Because they’re definitely not working.”

  Josh laughs.

  “Totally,” Dax says. “The Mariners should trade him.”

  “They’re not gonna trade Cameron Schulz,” Colby says. “He’s a franchise player.”

  “Poor guy’s just having a bad year,�
�� Dad pipes in. “It happens to the best of ’em. Give him a break.”

  Josh’s face is mere inches from mine. His eyes are smoldering. He touches the cleft in my chin, a gesture I interpret to mean I’m his and only his (and definitely not that asswipe Cameron Schulz’s)—and goose bumps erupt all over my body.

  Josh licks his lips and I know he wants to kiss me, but he doesn’t—a show of restraint around my family, I suppose. Instead, he leans back in his armchair, his eyes burning holes into my face, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me into him.

  “So how’s the album coming, Dax?” Josh asks, stroking my hair. “You were about to start recording when we first met at my house.”

  “Oh, it’s going great,” Dax says. “We’ve already got three songs in the can.”

  “You’ve got three songs finished?” Dad says. “Wow, that was fast.”

  “Yeah, we still might tweak the mixes, I’m not sure,” Dax clarifies. “But, yeah, all the instrumentation is recorded.”

  “Did you wind up using the violinist and cellist you met at my house?” Josh asks.

  “Yeah, and they slayed it. Total game-changers on the songs.”

  “Well, let’s hear what you’ve got,” Dad says.

  Dax looks at me for nonverbal guidance.

  Normally, Dax would reply to Dad’s question by saying, “Not ’til the songs are one hundred percent finished, Dad”—because that’s just the way Dax is. I’m the only one Dax ever lets hear his works in progress (and, in fact, he emailed me MP3s of his three new songs last night, swearing me to secrecy). But Dax refusing to play his new songs right now with Josh sitting right here would be a felony-stupid thing for my brother to do. What if Josh loves the songs (and there’s no doubt in my mind he will)? Josh might very well offer to forward them to his best friend Reed, without me ever saying a word about it.

  I nod encouragingly at Dax, telling him he should play the songs.

  “You can listen to ’em right now, Dad,” Dax says. “I’ve got ’em on my laptop in the back room.” He hops up and disappears into the hallway.

  “Louise!” Dad calls excitedly to Mom in the kitchen. “Get in here! Daxy’s gonna play three songs from his new album.”