Page 20 of Consummation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #3)

Fifteen

Josh

I think Kat was put on this earth to torture me.

Goddammit, I don’t just want her. I don’t just miss her. I crave her like a drug.

I look up from the report I’m writing on my laptop and rub my forehead.

Fuck, I can’t concentrate worth a shit. I should have finished this stupid report three days ago, but I can’t seem to trudge through it.

I peer at my screen, just to see if whatever the fuck I’ve been writing for the past hour makes a lick of sense.

For all I know, I’ve been writing, “Goobledoobledabbah” over and over. Fuck me.

I lean back in my chair.

Why’d I have to give in to my addiction and call Kat two hours ago? I thought hearing her voice would make me feel better, maybe take the edge off the pain I’ve been feeling all week, but all it did was torture me and make me crave her even more.

I blame 3 Doors Down, the bastards. “Here Without You” came on just as I was texting with Kat about how depressed Colby is, and the next thing I knew, I was texting Kat she could bring a smile to any man’s face, and then, right after that, hastily pressing the button to call her, stupidly throwing an entire week’s worth of self-imposed Kat-rehab out the fucking window.

“Theresa,” I say, looking at my longtime personal assistant across the room. She’s standing in my kitchen, cataloging a bunch of stuff that’s about to be loaded onto the moving truck out front. “You got any Ibuprofen?”

“Of course.” Theresa rummages into her purse and hands me a couple pills and a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Make it four,” I say .

She hands me two additional pills.

“Thanks.” I swallow the pills and look down at my computer.

“You’ve got a headache?” Theresa asks.

“I’m fine,” I say. But I’m a liar. I’m not fine.

In fact, I’m a wreck. And I’ve been a fucking wreck all week long, ever since I dragged my sorry, rejected, confused ass out of the hospital and onto the next flight back to L.A.

I was so shattered by Kat’s rejection of me that night, so overwhelmed at the bomb she’d dropped on me, I made a decision that very night to quit her once and for all.

If she’s my addiction, I thought, then I’ll just send myself to motherfucking rehab.

Of course, I knew it’d be hard to quit a fucking unicorn, especially a unicorn tinged with a delicious streak of evil—a unicorn who happens to be the most exciting and incredible woman I’ve ever been with—a unicorn who sets the gold standard for turning me on—a unicorn who laughs like a dude and thinks like a terrorist and has a sexy little indentation in her chin that drives me wild.

But I truly thought I could do it. I’m a fucking Faraday, after all, and, as my dad always used to drill into me, “Faradays never fucking quit.” (Other than when they blow their brains out or drive off a bridge, I guess).

“Josh, sorry to bug you,” Theresa says. A couple movers walk between us holding one of my black leather couches, and she pauses to let them pass before speaking.

“The interior designer asked if we could move our consultation at the new house from Wednesday to the following Monday? She’s got a family emergency. ”

After six years of running my life, Theresa surely must know what I’m going to say in response to her question.

But, okay, I’ll say it anyway. “If I happen to be in town on Monday, I’ll be there,” I reply.

“If not, handle it for me. Just make the house look the way I like it—masculine, sleek, expensive, and in good taste—like it popped out of a glossy magazine.”

“Okeedoke,” Theresa says. “Gotcha.”

I look down at my laptop again.

“Just one more thing,” Theresa says.

I look up, annoyed.

“Your cars won’t arrive at the new house until Tuesday at the earliest. So I went ahead and rented you a Ferrari 458 until then. It’ll be sitting in your garage when you arrive in Seattle. Keys on your kitchen counter. I’ve arranged a limo to pick you up from the airport. ”

I nod and look back down at my laptop. I have no idea what Theresa just said.

I think she said she rented me a Ferrari, but I’m not sure.

I can’t think. I can’t track. Shit. I can’t eat or sleep or breathe.

I’m losing my fucking mind. Kat, Kat, Kat.

She’s all I can think about. I’m drowning in an all-consuming ache.

I need to see her. Touch her. Fuck her. Smell her.

Bite her. Spank her. I’m dying. I actually think I might literally be dying.

This week has been goddamned fucking hell.

“Hey, Miss Rodriguez?” one of the moving guys asks. “Sorry to bug ya, but is this painting—”

“Yes, that’s one of the items that was purchased by the new owner and will stay with the house,” Theresa says, hopping up from her stool with obvious exasperation. “Put that painting down and come with me. I’m gonna show you which artwork stays and which goes again .”

My phone buzzes with an incoming text and I look down.

Kat.

My heart leaps. This is the first time all week Kat’s instigated contact with me.

“Hi, Josh,” Kat writes. “Just finished my doctor’s appointment.

Attaching a video of the sonogram. XOXO Kat.

P.S. I told Sarah about the baby at lunch and she went to the appointment with me.

Sorry. It just slipped out.” She attaches a blushing-face emoji.

“P.P.S. I’d strongly advise you NEVER send me into war with any classified information.

Oh, and Sarah says she won’t tell Jonas about the baby—she’ll leave that to you.

But she says you better tell your brother he’s going to be an uncle soon—because even though Sarah’s not nearly as big a blabbermouth as me (but who is?), she’s still only human. ”

I shake my head. It’s so Kat to insist we hold off telling Jonas and Sarah about the pregnancy until after their wedding and then go right ahead and blab about it to Sarah not five minutes later. I press play on the video, still shaking my head, completely annoyed.

“Doctor,” Sarah’s voice says, “will you explain what’s onscreen for the baby’s father?”

My entire body jolts at Sarah’s use of the word “father.” Holy fuck. Sarah’s referring to me .

The doctor explains what’s onscreen, including pointing out a flicker she says is the baby’s heartbeat—what the fuck?—the baby’s got a heartbeat already?—and when the doctor’s finished talking, the camera pans to Kat.

Kat.

Oh my God.

My heart wrenches at the sight of her. She’s lying on an examination table, her blouse pulled up, her golden hair splayed around her head—and her eyes looking as sad and lackluster as I’ve ever seen them.

Oh my God. My heart’s absolutely breaking at the pitiful, lonely, tortured look in Kat’s beautiful blue eyes.

Instantly, all the anger I’ve been feeling toward Kat this week evaporates into thin air.

I can’t get over how unhappy my gorgeous Party Girl looks—and utterly exhausted, too.

Clearly, she’s not well. She’s still hot as hell, of course—she’s Katherine Ulla Morgan, after all—but I’ve never seen Kat look quite so ragged.

So vulnerable . So fucking miserable. Even when she was hung-over and functioning on three hours of sleep in Vegas, even when she was scared to death to walk into a bank and impersonate a Ukrainian pimpstress, even when she found out I didn’t tell her about my move to Seattle , Kat never looked quite the way she does in this video.

“Hi, Josh,” Kat says toward the camera, waving half-heartedly.

“Well, it looks like our accidental Faraday is a stubborn little thing—surprise, surprise! I guess he or she’s decided they’re not going anywhere, after all.

” Emotion overwhelms her all of a sudden.

She wipes her eyes. “I’m really sorry, Josh,” Kat says, her voice wobbling.

The video abruptly ends.

I lean back in my chair, my heart exploding with yearning and regret and sympathy. Oh my God. Kat. My Party Girl with a Hyphen. My beautiful unicorn.

The woman I love.

Oh my God, yes. It’s suddenly as obvious to me as the nose on my face: I love Kat.

I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize it.

I love Katherine Ulla Morgan and I can’t live another day without her.

I can’t fucking breathe without her. Jesus Fucking Christ. What the fuck have I been doing this whole past week, staying away from the woman I love?

I should have been comforting her—taking care of her—telling her we’re in this cluster-fuck of a situation together.

I should have been strong enough—compassionate enough— man enough—to tell the voices in my head to shut the fuck up.

I feel like the earth has suddenly broken off its axis and hurtled uncontrollably into space.

Oh my God. I love Kat —and I should have been there for her this whole past week while she was dealing with Colby’s injuries and the shit-storm her life’s become, rather than sitting around moping and wallowing in self-pity and fear.

Oh my God. I’m such a prick. An immature, self-involved, pussy-ass of a little prick.

I pick up my phone, adrenaline coursing through my body.

“Hi,” Kat says softly, answering after one ring.

“Hi,” I reply. “I got your video, Kat—I saw the grape.”

Kat exhales. “I’m so sorry, Josh.” She lets out a little yelp.

My heart squeezes. “You have nothing to apologize for,” I say, emotion overwhelming me. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“You? But I’m the one who forgot to take my pill.”

“Kat, so what? Birth control pills aren’t one hundred percent effective in the best-case scenario. So we took a slightly higher risk than I’d originally realized. It was a fucking accident .”

“But you trusted me and I screwed up.”

I scoff. “Who could remember to take a pill with the schedule we were keeping in Vegas? Seriously, Kat, if the situation were reversed, I would have missed a whole week’s worth of pills, I guarantee it.”

Kat lets out a little whimper.