Page 71 of Consummation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #3)

Josh

I pull my brand new, cherry-red Ferrari FF into my driveway and sit for a moment, singing along to the song blaring through my speakers.

It’s my current theme song: “All I Do Is Win” by DJ Khaled.

When the fucking awesome song finishes, I kill the engine of my fucking awesome car and lovingly caress my steering wheel.

“I love you, baby,” I say softly to my beautiful car—my thirty-first birthday present to myself.

It’s just a little something to celebrate how fucking hard I’m winning at The Game of Fucking Life.

God- damn , I’m a fucking beast. All I do is win, win, win, baby.

Fuck yeah, I do. No matter what. Because I’m a winner . Truth.

I run my hands tenderly over my steering wheel again, exhaling with near-sexual pleasure as I do.

God- damn , this is a beautiful fucking car.

I get a hard-on every time I get behind the wheel.

Fuck yeah, I do. I’ve got a beautiful fucking Ferrari to match my beautiful fucking Ferrari of a wife and my sweet little baby girl and fucking awesome house ten minutes away from my fucking awesome brother.

And not only that, Climb and Conquer is absolutely slaying it these days—we’ve already shattered our mid-year revenue projections and we’re planning major expansion in seven more markets later this year—plus, our designated charities are all flourishing, too.

As it turns out, Jonas’ entire business model was pure fucking genius. Surprise, surprise.

And, on top of all that , when I got home from work last night, I’d no sooner taken two steps through my front door than my beautiful sick fuck of a wife silently greeted me at the door by unzipping my pants, kneeling before me, and sucking my big ol’ dick ’til I exploded into her waiting mouth.

God- damn , I’m crushing life. Winner, winner, chicken fucking dinner, baby. Boo-fucking-yah .

I pull my phone out of my glove box and quickly scan my texts, and, as expected, there’s a message from good ol’ fucking awesome and reliable T-Rod, confirming everything’s set for my romantic-stay-at-home birthday dinner with my two favorite blondes.

“Everyone’s already at your house, setting up,” Theresa writes.

“Chef, waiter, violin, cello. Oh, and I added a viola just for yucks. Have fun, Birthday Boy!”

I shoot off a quick reply. “Thanks a million, T. Just got home. Gonna be a great night.”

I tilt my rearview mirror toward my face and survey my reflection. Handsome motherfucker. Lucky bastard. Winner . I run my hand through my hair, carefully smoothing a stray, and straighten the knot on my Roberto Cavalli necktie.

I pick up the bouquet of gardenias and the velvet jewelry box sitting on the passenger seat of my fucking awesome car—what better way to celebrate my birthday than giving my wife more ice for her ever-growing collection?

—and then I bound happily toward the front door of my fucking awesome house, clicking the heels of my Stefano Bemer shoes, singing the DJ Khaled song under my breath as I go.

But when I get inside my house, it’s perfectly quiet. No hustle-bustle; no signs of preparations for a birthday dinner; no wife dropping to her knees as she greets me in the doorway.

I peek into the kitchen. No chef. I check the dining area. No violinist, cellist or viola-ist. (What the fuck do you call someone who plays a viola?)

“Kat?” I call.

But my smokin’ hot wife is nowhere to be found.

I head into the nursery and, lo and behold, there’s my mother-in-law, sitting in a glider with Gracie, quietly reading her a book about farm animals.

Louise looks up from the book in her hands and her face lights up. “Happy birthday!” she says. “Look, Gracie. Daddy-the-birthday-boy is here!” Louise gets up from the glider, toting Gracie in her arms.

“Hi, Gramma Lou,” I say, kissing Louise on her cheek. “Where’s my wife?”

“Oh, she went out,” Louise says.

“What? We were supposed to have a romantic dinner-for-two-and-a-half here at the house. I had everything all set up. ”

“Yes. And, I must say, everything you arranged looked very romantic, indeed—absolutely stunning. The chef was a real sweetheart, too. He took it very well when Kat sent him and the musicians to Colby’s house, instead.

” Louise leans in like she’s telling me a secret.

“Colby’s got a hot date with his physical therapist tonight, so I’m sure he’ll greatly appreciate everything you had planned. ”

I stare at Louise dumbly. “Kat sent everyone away ?”

“Mmm hmm. She left a note explaining the new plan. It’s in the kitchen.

I’ve got a few birthday presents waiting for you in there, too.

Come on.” She hands Gracie to me and the three of us make our way into the kitchen.

When we arrive, Louise hands me a rectangular box off the counter, wrapped in bright yellow paper and a bow.

“Thank you,” I say. I hand her Gracie and unwrap the box to find a genuine treasure awaiting me.

“Wow. ‘Barrique de Ponciano de Parfidio,’” I say, reading the label on the elegant—and rare—bottle of tequila.

“Lou, this stuff is really hard to come by—a total collector’s item. How on earth did you get it?”

She shrugs. “Oh, just a little something called the Interwebs.”

“Thank you so much. I’ve tasted this stuff once before a long time ago and it was fantastic. Thank you.” I kiss her on the cheek, and as I do, Gracie reaches for the scruff on my chin so I take her back from Louise.

“It’s from the whole family—the boys, too—we all chipped in. Even Keane.”

“Even Keane?” I ask, laughing.

“Even Keane. So that tells you where you rank in this family’s pecking order. Pretty darned high.”

“Wow, I’m totally honored. I’ll call everyone and thank them tomorrow—but will you tell them I got it and loved it?”

“I sure will. Ryan said you better save him a couple shots of that stuff, by the way, or he’ll never forgive you.”

“That goes without saying—not just for Ry, for everyone. Maybe we can do a foosball-tournament-tequila-tasting-dinner later this week?”

“Great. It’ll be your belated birthday party. What would you like me to make?”

“Oh, everything you make is great. ”

“It’s your birthday, honey. Pick what you want.”

“Spaghetti, then,” I say definitively. “My favorite.”

Louise smiles. “You got it. Plus extras for the birthday boy.”

“Hot damn. You know I love my extras.”

Louise giggles and hands me another box. “This one is from Ryan, specifically.”

I open the box and it’s a crystal shot glass, etched with the name “Lambo.”

“Ry got himself one engraved with ‘Captain’ so you two can sit out on the patio like lovebirds, watch the sunset together, and drink your new tequila.” She rolls her eyes.

“Ryan’s truly talented at giving gifts to others which actually turn out to be gifts to himself, isn’t he?

” She grabs a gift bag off the counter. “And this one is from me. Just a little trinket.”

“This is all too much, Lou,” I say. “Really.”

“Oh, no. This is just a little nothing. Hardly anything at all. I saw it and thought of you.”

Gracie bats me in the face so I shift her in my arms and pull out the contents of the gift bag. A lump rises in my throat at the sight of my gift—a coffee mug, emblazoned with the phrase, “World’s Greatest Son-in-Law.”

“Thank you,” I say, hugging Louise with my free arm.

“Whenever you have a cup of coffee, you’ll be reminded how much you’re loved, honey.”

I bite my lip. “Thank you.”

Louise waves her hand. “You’re impossible to buy presents for, you know that, Josh? What do you get the guy who has everything?”

I motion to everything I just opened. “All this.”

“We all just wanted you to know how much you’re loved, that’s all.”

“Thank you. I feel it. I love all of you, too.”

Louise wipes her eyes. “So, enough of that. You never intended to spend your birthday hanging out with your boring mother-in-law. Gimme that baby.” She grabs Gracie from me and hands me an envelope off the counter. “Here you go. Kat asked me to deliver this to you exactly at six.”

I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. Six on the button.

I open the sealed envelope and immediately smile from ear to ear.

There’s a poker chip inside—and a typewritten note: “Happy Birthday, my darling, beloved Playboy with a Heart of Gold!” the note reads.

“Sorry-not-sorry, but our romantic dinner-for-two-and-a-half has been cancelled and donated to a very good cause (namely, getting Colby laid by the hot physical therapist he’s been drooling over for the past two months).

The Playboy and The Party Girl with a Hyphen can’t stay home like old farts on the Playboy’s thirty-fucking-first birthday!

Hell no, old man! We can sleep when we’re dead!

Go big or go home! YOLO! It’s time to party like it’s 1999!

(Well, until about midnight, that is, since that’s when Gracie’s been waking up lately for a feeding.) So get into your fancy new Ferrari and get your YOLO’d ass to this address, PB.

” It’s an address in nearby Kent. “Because, Playboy, I feel the need—the need for speed! XOXOXOXOX Mrs. Katherine Ulla Faraday. P.S. I’ve always wanted to fuck the winner of the Indy 500! ”

I look up from reading the note, my cheeks hot, my dick tingling.

“Well?” Louise asks. “Good news?”

“Great news.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and Google the address on the note and quickly discover it’s a professional-grade racetrack about forty minutes outside of Seattle, exactly as I figured.

“ Fantastic news,” I say. I kiss Louise and Gracie on their cheeks and gather my car keys off the counter.

“Thanks for watching Gracie. We’ll be home around midnight, if not before. ”

“Don’t rush home. Kat pumped before she left—we’ve got plenty of milk to tide us over.”

“Thank you so much.” I kiss Gracie again. “Bye, Little G. I love you, honey.”

“Guh,” Gracie says.

I sprint toward the exit of the kitchen.

“Hey, wait, honey,” Louise calls to my back. “Aren’t you hungry? Maybe you should take a little something to nibble on?”

“Good point.” I say. Quickly, I make a couple orgasm-inducing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—one for me and one for my wife—and throw them into a bag with some apples and chips and bottles of water.

“A meal fit for a king and queen,” I say.

I wink at Louise. “Thanks again for watching Little G.”

“Have fun, honey,” Louise calls to my back.

“Oh, I will,” I yell back .

I race outside, hop into my fucking awesome new car, and peel out of the driveway of my fucking awesome house, my dick throbbing, my heart racing, my skin buzzing; and, once I’m driving smoothly on the highway, I press the button to call Kat through my wireless connection.

“Hey, Playboy,” Kat purrs into the phone. “Did you get my note?”

“I sure did,” I say. “I’m on my way.”

“Are you mad about dinner being cancelled?”

“Hell no. This is a much better offer. YOLO, right, babe?”

“Words to live by.”

“Especially for a guy who happens to have ’em stamped on his ass.”

“Amen.” Kat laughs. “Drive safe, my love. I can’t wait to celebrate your birthday in a manner befitting the one and only Playboy with the Heart of Gold. I’ve got a whole bunch of surprises waiting for you.” She snickers. “I sure hope you’re well rested.”

“Thanks, baby. You’re the best. I think you might know me better than I know myself sometimes.”

“ Might ? Sometimes ? Of course, I do—and don’t you ever forget it. If there are two things I know in this life, it’s PR and Joshua William Faraday.”

I chuckle. “Truer words were never spoken, PG.”

“Okay, get off the phone, honey. Concentrate on your driving—I need you here in one piece or else you’ll fuck everything up.” She makes a sexual sound. “Oh, baby, I’m gonna give you a birthday present you’ll never, ever forget.”

“Oh, yeah, Party Girl?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, Playboy,” she replies. “It’s gonna be so goooood.”

I laugh. “So that’s how this story ends, huh?”

“You don’t know how this story ends?” Kat asks.

“Well, yeah, I do—we fuck like rabbits.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a pretty damned good ending, I’d say.”

“And then we live happily ever after,” I add.

“Aw, amen, baby,” she says softly. “The best ending of all.”

“I love you, Kat,” I say quietly, my heart soaring. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you, too, my beloved Joshua. With all my heart and soul.” She sighs on the other end of the line. “ Forever . ”

Josh and Kat’s story is over, but you can find out more of their story while reading about the Morgans!

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