I gasp and jerk forward in my seat, clutching my throat like I’m choking on a chicken bone. Oh my fucking shit. What am I thinking? I want to take Josh home to meet my family? I haven’t taken anyone home since Garrett.
I stare at the rain battering the window of the taxicab, still clutching my throat, trying desperately to think of some logical reason why I’m feeling like a tortured, lovesick puppy that doesn’t involve falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor (who, in case I missed it, just told me in not-so-secret code he’s not at all interested in a long-term commitment). But I can’t come up with a damned thing.
I’m falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor.
Oh God.
No. I need to stop feeling this way right now and get a handle on my emotions. I press both of my palms on my cheeks, willing myself to stop feeling this all-consuming ache. Infatuation is fine. Sexual attraction is fine. We’ll-see-where-this-goes is perfectly fine. Really liking someone a whole lot is perfectly fine. But risking inevitable, shattering heartbreak is emphaticallynot.
Dude, I need to think rationally, with my brain, and not my lady-parts.
I’m in lust, and nothing more. Well, that and very strong like. Very, very strong like. But once I get back to work and the routine of my real life, once the neon lights and excitement of our spy-caper-porno in Las Vegas have faded for both of us and reality sets in and we remember that Josh and I live not just in different states but in differentworlds—because I’m not a supermodel and my mom isn’t a movie star with houses in the Hamptons and Aspen, for crying out loud—I’m sure my fairytale-delusions will crash down to reality without a parachute.
Indubitably.
18
KAT
When I enter my apartment, my youngest brother, Dax, is on the couch, playing his guitar and singing a song I’ve never heard before. When he sees me, he sets down his guitar and lopes over to me, his lean muscles taut in his tight-fitting T-shirt.
“Jizz,” he says warmly, wrapping me in a big hug. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I kiss his cheek. “Hey, baby brother,” I say. “Thanks for keeping my apartment safe and sound.”
“It was hard work, but somebody had to do it. Was Vegas a blast?”
“Yeah, it was amazing.”
“How much money did you lose?”
“Oh, not too much,” I say coyly. “So, hey, was that a new song you were just playing?”
“Yeah, I was just fine-tuning it. It’s not done yet.”
“Play me what you’ve got.” I lead him to the couch and we sit.
“Naw, I’ll play it for you when I’ve got it finished.”
“I won’t criticize it. Just play me what you got.”
His face lights up. “Well, if you insist.”
I laugh. “I do.”
Dax picks up his guitar and plays an up-tempo song about looking for love in the anonymous faces he passes on a busy city street—and his expressive voice and vulnerable lyrics transport me with every word and note.
“Wistful, hopeful, funny, romantic, and lonely all at the same time,” I say when he’s done. “I absolutely love it.”
“Yeah, but you love everything I write.”
“True. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sincere.”
He grins. “So, hey, I got your mail for you.” He slides a stack of mail on the coffee table toward me.
“Oh, thanks. I never thought I’d be gone so long.” I start rifling through the stack. “Bills, bills, bills. Credit card offers. Coupons. Catalogs. Doesn’t look like I missed—” I look up. Oh. I’m talking to myself. Dax isn’t in the room. I look back down at the stack of mail and continue sorting it.
I hear a thudding noise in the center of the room and look up just in time to see Dax straightening up from putting down a heavy-looking box. “This bad boy got delivered a couple hours ago,” he says. “From someone named J.W. Faraday.”
