But I can barely process what he’s saying. Josh doesn’t love Los Angeles? Does that mean he might be open to moving back home one day? But, whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell is my brain doing? Josh has made it abundantly clear he’s not thinking about a long-term commitment. For crying out loud, only an hour ago the dude said he was scratching the two-woman scenario off his bucket list “at leastwhen it comes to me”—which means it’s still on his agenda with other women, whenever (if ever?) this crazy whatever-it-is between us has run its course.
“Wow,” I stammer, even though I don’t know what the hell Josh was just saying. I think it was something about Joaquin Phoenix’s house?
“Let me give you the rest of the tour,” Josh says.
He leads me back inside and straight past his gleaming kitchen.
“Hang on,” I say. “Can I see your kitchen? It looks pretty fancy-schmancy.”
“Oh, it is. My designer redid the entire thing top to bottom when I moved in four years ago—we installed professional-grade everything.” He flashes me a crooked grin. “But since I don’t cook, it’s basically just for show.”
“You have a kitchen likethisand you don’t cook?”
“Yup. I’m super-smart that way.”
“You don’t cookat all?”
“Not even a little bit. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve turned on this stove in four years—and at least two of those times, I was lighting a doobie.”
I laugh. “Josh, this is a frickin’ gourmet kitchen. Wolfgang Puck would kill for a kitchen like this.”
“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,andshe’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?”
