by Lauren Rowe
Josh puts his finger to his lips.
The limo winds its way through a gate and stops at a hangar about fifty yards from a small jet with its door opened wide and retractable staircase down.
“Are we going somewhere on that plane there?” I ask, pointing.
“God, you’re a terrible listener,” Josh says.
“Sorry. But are we going somewhere on a private plane? I’ve never been on a private plane. Oh my God.”
“Ssh.”
The limo driver opens our door and Josh gets out first.
“Don’t forget our bags in the trunk, please,” Josh instructs the driver. He bends down and peeks at me in the backseat. “You ready to make my hottest fantasy come true, Party Girl?”
I shoot Josh a look that says I don’t believe for a second we’re here to fulfill his fantasy. So far today, Josh has dressed me like Julia Roberts, slapped a beachside condo around my neck, and told me he’ll love me forever and ever. It really doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize he’s fulfilling my top fantasies today, no matter what he says. “If you say so, PB,” I say, looking at him sideways.
“Oh, I do.” Josh pulls me out of the car and threads my arm into his. “You look incredible in that dress,” he whispers. He begins escorting me toward the nearby jet.
“Thank you. I absolutely love it. And the necklace—oh my God, Josh, it’s beyond my wildest dreams.” I touch the dazzling rocks encircling my neck, still not able to comprehend they’re mine.
“That’s good. Because you’re beyond my wildest dreams, babe.”
I abruptly stop walking. “Okay, that’s it,” I say. “What the heck is going on?”
Josh furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I had to lesbo-out with a bisexual supermodel and hypnotize you with a devious song to trick you into saying ‘I love you’ not too long ago, and now, suddenly, you’re watching Pretty Woman and acting like Michael Bublé on steroids?”
Josh laughs and touches my belly. “Kat, just roll with it, baby. Don’t overthink it. Your job is to react. Nothing more.”
“At first I thought maybe you’d arranged all this because you’re so happy to be having a daughter named after your mom, but then I realized you had to have arranged all this before we found out the kumquat’s gender.”
“Don’t think, babe. React.”
“But, Josh, you watched Pretty Woman, for cryin’ out loud. Have you gone completely mad?”
Josh brushes the hair out of my face and gazes into my eyes. “Yes, I have. Completely and utterly insane.” He smiles. “And I’ve never been happier.”
I bite my lip.
“Now come on, baby—we’ve got a private plane to catch.”
When we reach the jet on the tarmac, a pilot in full uniform descends the retractable stairs and greets us. Josh leads me up the stairs and directs me to a window seat.
“You need anything?” Josh asks as I settle into my seat. “Club soda? A barf bag?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m good. I haven’t barfed in a few days, actually.”
“Hey, give that girl a salami,” Josh says, grinning. “Will you do me a favor and hang out here for a minute, PG? I’ve got to talk briefly to the pilot about the flight plan.”
“Is it okay if I send Sarah a photo of my necklace?”
“Of course,” Josh says. “It’s yours, after all.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “You just made my heart skip a beat.”
Josh grins. “I’ll be right back, baby.” He winks and disappears down the stairs.
I pull my phone out of my clutch bag, take a quick selfie (making sure my dazzling necklace is front and center), and shoot the photo off to Sarah, tapping out a quick message along with it. “OMFG,” I write. “I’m sitting on a PRIVATE PLANE wearing THIS!”
“Really? Wow! Amaaaaazing!” Sarah writes back instantly. “Where are you going?”
“I have no freaking clue!!!!!!” I write. “Josh dressed me in a Pretty Woman red dress and gave me this ridicky diamond necklace—TO KEEP!!!!!!—and told me he’s gonna love me ‘FOREVER’ and called me ‘MY LOVE’! And he didn’t pass out or hurl during any of it! And now we’re on a private jet heading to I DON’T CARE WHERE!”
“No way! That’s so exciting! WOWZERCATS!”
Even in text, something about Sarah’s reply feels canned to me. I shoot a snarky look at my display screen. “Oh, Sarah Cruz,” I write. “You’re the worst liar ever, even in text. I hope when you’re a lawyer you wind up defending only innocent people because, otherwise, your guilty clients are all going straight to prison.”
“LOL,” Sarah writes. “First off, I’m not gonna practice criminal law—I’ll be working for Gloria’s House helping women get restraining orders and stuff. Second off, I like the fact that I’m a horrible liar. It’s one of my best qualities.” She attaches a scared-face emoji to the end of her message.
“You already knew about the necklace, didn’t you?” I write.
“Of course. Do you really think I would have chosen working with my mom today over celebrating the big reveal of Gracie Louise Faraday? Come on, girl!”
“Yeah, I thought it was weird you were turning down an opportunity to drink champagne,” I write. “So, hey, will you go shopping with me when I get back? I’m suddenly feeling the urge to buy lots and lots of PINK!!!!! Woohooooooo!”
“Hellz yeah!!!” Sarah writes. “I’m already planning to buy my sweet little niece a pair of her very own pink, sparkly boots! Yeehaw!”
I laugh out loud and begin tapping out a reply, but before I can finish my message, a text notification comes in from Josh.
“Raise the blind on your window and look outside,” Josh’s text says.
“Gotta go,” I quickly type to Sarah. “The director of our mini-porno just told me to take my mark. Teehee. I’ll give you a full report later, girlio.”
“You better,” Sarah writes. “Have fun, Kitty Kat!” She attaches a cat emoji and a heart.
“Meow,” I write, followed by a salsa dancer (the emoji I always use to symbolize Sarah), plus a heart of my own.
I put my phone back into my sparkling clutch and then, as instructed, slowly raise the window blind and peek outside.
No.
Impossible.
Joshua William Faraday has just killed me. I’m officially dead. RIP Katherine Ulla Morgan. It’s been a great life.
Josh is standing below me on the tarmac in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, staring up with a smoldering expression on his handsome face—and with his arm in a freakin’ sling!
“Stop!” I yell toward the cockpit, even though the airplane isn’t moving (and the engines aren’t even on). “Stop!” I shriek again, leaping dramatically up from my chair. My brain isn’t processing coherent thought right now, it’s true, but I don’t need conscious thought to know what I’m supposed to do in this scene—I’ve seen it in The Bodyguard twenty times, after all.
I burst down the stairs of the plane as fast as I can manage in my tight-fitting dress and towering heels and sprint (sort of) to Josh. And when I reach him, I throw my arms around his neck, hyperventilating. “Josh,” I gasp. “I love you, I love you, I love—”
Josh’s tongue slides into my mouth, shutting me up, while his free hand caresses my back—and when he pulls away from our kiss, his eyes are on fire. “Katherine Ulla Morgan,” he says, his voice intense. “I. Will. Always. Love. You.”
I squeal loudly, completely enthralled.
“I know marriage isn’t in the cards for us,” Josh says, “since neither of us wants that kind of hoopla, as we’ve discussed.” One side of his mouth hitches up. “But I hope you’ll accept this gift as a symbol of my eternal love for you.” He pulls a skinny, rectangular jewelry box out of his pocket.
“Oh my effing God,” I blurt, even before Josh has opened the box. “No, Josh. No. Whatever that is, it’s too much, honey. No.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ when it c
omes to you, babe,” Josh says.
“No,” I breathe. “Baby, no. You can’t. Too much.”
“Ssh. You can forbid me to give extravagant gifts to your parents,” Josh says. “But when it comes to giving gifts to you, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”
I clutch my stomach. “Oh God, I feel like I’m gonna hurl,” I say.
Josh flinches. “Not quite the reaction I was going for, babe.”
I feel myself turning green.
“Well, shit,” Josh says, crinkling his nose. “Maybe take a deep breath? Fuck, Kat. Seriously?”
I take a deep breath, but my nausea doesn’t subside.
Josh’s scowl intensifies. “I haven’t even opened the box yet, Kat.”
“Sorry.”
Josh exhales in frustration. “Maybe bend over and breathe deeply? I’ll hold onto you so you don’t fall over.”
I bend over and breathe for a long moment as Josh holds me and rubs my back and, soon, thankfully, I’ve regained my equilibrium. “Okay,” I say, standing upright again. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. I’m fine. I’m ready.”
“You gonna barf if I open this box?”
I shake my head.
“I really like these shoes, Kat,” Josh warns. “These are Stefano Bemer shoes, babe—please don’t barf on them.”
“Ooh la la—Stefano Bemers,” I say, even though I’ve never heard that name in my entire life. “I’d never barf on Stefano Bemer shoes, baby. I respect Mr. Bemer too freaking much.”
Josh laughs. “Okay. Here we go.” He opens the box, and, instantly, I’m a goddamned fucking wreck. If my necklace is a beachside condo, then the behemoth of a diamond bracelet sitting inside that velvet box is at least a convertible Porsche.
“Oh my God!” I shriek, tears pricking my eyes.
Josh pulls the bracelet out of the box and clasps it to my wrist. “I love you, Kat,” he whispers. He wraps me in a huge hug and kisses my tear-soaked cheeks.
“It’s too much,” I mumble into Josh’s lips. “Oh my God, Josh. You can’t do this. I’m not worthy.”
Josh pulls back sharply from me, his eyes on fire. “Don’t say that,” he grits out, his voice spiking with sudden intensity. “Never, ever say that—do you understand me?”
My breath catches in my throat. I’d only meant that phrase as a figure of speech, kind of like from Wayne’s World—“We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!” Although, of course, I’m truly not worthy. Who could possibly be worthy of this kind of extravagance?
Josh cups my face in his large hands, heat wafting off him, his eyes burning. “You’re my Pretty Woman and I’m your Bodyguard, Kat. You’re the great love of my life and the mother of my future daughter.” He presses himself into me and the hard bulge between us feels like it was forged in a steel factory. “Babe, have you been listening to me at all? You’re mine now. Forever. Mine, all mine. And I’m not just some normal, boring guy—I’m Josh Fucking Faraday. And that means you gotta be dripping in fucking diamonds when you’re on my arm.” He slaps my ass, making me jump. “Now, come on, babe. Time to get your tight little ass onto that plane. I’m hard as a rock and ready to initiate my Party Girl with a Hyphen into the mile-high club.”
One Hundred Nineteen
Josh
“Oooooh, a white limo,” Kat says, settling herself into the backseat. She shoots me a snarky smile. “Just like in the final scene of Pretty Woman.”
“Ssh,” I say, pulling the skirt of Kat’s gown out from under my thigh as I scoot closer to her in the back seat. “This is my top fantasy—not yours, baby. You’re here to react, not to try to figure things out.”
“Okay, well, my reaction is, ‘Hey, you arranged a white limo just like that awesome final scene in Pretty Woman.’”
I roll my eyes. “Smart-ass.”
Kat grins.
I glance through the rear window of the limo just in time to see our driver closing the trunk. My stomach somersaults with excitement. This is it.
The driver walks along the length of the limo and settles into his seat up front.
“You got everything into the trunk?” I ask, referring to more than just our overnight bags.
“Yes, sir,” the driver says. “Everything’s there.” He winks.
“Fantastic,” I say. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
The limo begins to pull away.
“Where are we going?” Kat asks, looking out the car window at the small airport we’re leaving behind.
“Are you hungry, Party Girl?” I ask, completely ignoring her question. “There’s a platter here—fruit, cheese, tapenade, crackers, prosciutto.”
“Oh, God, yes. Thank you. I’m starving.” Kat begins literally stuffing food into her mouth like her very life depends on it. After a moment, she giggles at herself. “Dude, I’m in full Homer-Simpson mode,” she says. “Nom nom nom. I can’t control myself.”
“The kumquat’s really hungry, huh?” I ask.
“Pretty much all the time these days. She’s a demanding little thing.”
I open my mouth to make a snarky comment but Kat holds up her hand.
“Don’t say it,” she says, mock-glaring at me.
I smash my lips together and we both laugh.
“You know, the two of us are really not behaving in a way becoming of people dressed in formalwear,” Kat says, chomping on a piece of cheese.
“Thank God,” I say.
“Yeah, sure, it’s all fun and games for us, but definitely not for the flight attendant,” Kat says. “It really wasn’t that big a plane, poor thing.”
“Oh, she’ll survive. We can’t possibly be the first people to fuck like rabbits on a private plane.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Kat says. She giggles. “Surely other people fuck, but not like that—that was pretty enthusiastic, even for us, Josh. Dressed in a gown like this, I really should have acted much more like a proper young lady on that plane. Tsk, tsk.”
I lean forward and touch Kat’s chin. “Promise me something, babe,” I say.
“Anything, my love.”
“Promise me, no matter what, you’ll never, ever act like a proper young lady as long as we both shall live.”
A lovely smile spreads across Kat’s face. “I promise.”
“Thank you.”
A few minutes later, after Kat’s finished eating like a truck driver suffering from mad cow disease, she scoots closer to me on the car seat and rests her head on my shoulder. “Thank you for this amazing day, Josh,” she says. “This is the best day of my life.” She clasps her fingers in mine.
“That’s sweet,” I say nonchalantly. “But your feelings are completely irrelevant, since today is for my benefit and not yours.”
Kat giggles. “You’re so full of shit.”
We silently watch the passing scenery through the car window for several minutes, the Southern California ocean glimmering in the late-afternoon light. “I’ve never been to San Diego,” Kat says. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Yeah, I love it here,” I say. “I usually make it down here a couple times a year during racing season. I’ve got several good friends who own racehorses.”
“Of course, you do. I’m shocked you don’t own a couple yourself.”
“Meh. I did a few years ago. But it turns out racehorses are fucking money pits to own—a lot more fun when someone else is paying the bills.”
“God, ain’t that the truth,” Kat says, squeezing my hand. “It’s what I always say.”
We look out at the passing scenery again, our hands clasped comfortably.
“I love the ocean,” Kat says. “Especially at this time of day when the light is soft and golden.”
Just like your hair, I think, stroking the full length of her soft, golden mane—but, of course, I keep that thought to myself. There’s only so much poetic babbling a guy can do in one day and I’ve got to rest up for all the poetic babbling that lies ahead. I s
tare at the passing scenery for a long minute, stroking Kat’s glorious hair, breathing in the scent of her, thinking about what I’m gonna say to her when we reach our destination.
“Staring at the ocean always makes me feel small, but in a good way,” Kat says quietly, looking out the window.
“Me, too,” I say. “Like my problems don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.”
“You have problems?” she asks.
I kiss the top of her head. “Not anymore.”
Kat nuzzles into me. “I wish I had something amazing to give you—the male equivalent of a Carolina Herrera gown and diamonds, whatever that would be—so you could feel the way I do right now.”
“Well, the male equivalent of a Carolina Herrera dress and diamonds would be an Italian sports car—which I already have. But, don’t worry, you’ve already given me something ten times better than that.”
Kat lifts her head, apparently about to say something, but yawns, instead.
“Damn, you’re hard to impress,” I say.
She giggles. “Sorry. It’s been an exciting day. I’m duly impressed, I assure you.”
I open my arms to her and pat my heart. “Lay your cheek right here, beautiful. Close your eyes for a bit.”
Kat nuzzles into my chest. “Where are we headed?” she asks groggily.
“God, you’re a terrible listener,” I say, stroking her hair.
Kat purrs like a kitten against my chest and in less than a minute, her head droops like a dead weight. I shift in my seat, trying to make her more comfortable, but, inadvertently startle her awake, instead.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “I was trying to make you more comfortable. Go back to sleep, babe. I won’t move.”
“How long ’til we get wherever we’re going?” she asks, her voice thick with drowsiness. “Do I have time to sleep?”
“How much longer ’til we reach our destination?” I ask the limo driver.
“About thirty minutes, sir, depending on traffic,” the driver says.
“Plenty of time for a little nap, hot momma,” I say. “Go for it.”
Kat rests her cheek against me again. “I think I will, if that’s okay—just for a few minutes.”