Page 34 of Consummation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #3)
Twenty-Three
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.”
There’s a clatter in the kitchen. “Oh my gosh! I’m coming!
” Mom calls—and in a heartbeat, she appears in the family room, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed, a glass of red wine in her hand.
“I’m so excited.” She plops herself down on the couch next to Dad and puts her head on his shoulder (her patented move), and Dad clasps her free hand in his.
I glance at Josh and I’m not surprised to observe he’s absolutely transfixed by my parents and their easy show of affection. That’s right, Playboy, I think, warmth gurgling at my core like molten lava. Watch and learn how it’s done.
Dax returns with his laptop and hooks it up to the sound system and a few seconds later, his first song fills the room .