Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Evil genius,” I whisper.
She grins wickedly. “I was totally prepared to do it for you, I really was—and I still will, if that’s what you want. But, yeah, I do admit I like that you couldn’t stand watching me with someone else—that you wanted me all to yourself.”
There’s a very long beat. I don’t know what the fuck to say or do, so I kiss her. And then I kiss her again, my heart racing. When we part lips, I touch her face again. She’s so fucking beautiful. And so fucking evil. She’s perfect.
“So, hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I think I’ve had enough of hotels for a while. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept in my own bed this past month. If it’s cool with you, I’d prefer to ditch this ramshackle motel and take you to my house. I wanna kiss every inch of the great Katherine Ulla Morgan in my own bed tonight.”
She presses her body into mine. “Awesome. Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything, but this place really is a dump.”
I laugh.
“You’re sure you don’t feel like you’re missing out if I don’t lesbo-out with Bridgette?” she asks. “Maybe we could do it on my next trip if you’re still—”
“Babe.” I touch the cleft in her chin and she abruptly stops talking. “No.” I exhale a long, shaky breath. “The thought of seeing you with someone else makes me wanna break a face.” Her face lights up. “And if I break a face, it’s quite possible I could get punched in return. And if I get punched, I might get a mark on my pretty face.” I shake my head, chastising her. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
She shakes her head in mimicry of my movement. “No way. Your face is much too pretty to get marked up.”
“Exactly. So that means from here on out, no one touches my Party Girl With a Hyphen but me.”
23
KAT
“Wow, you really like black leather, huh?” I say, looking around Josh’s sleek and spacious living room.
“Yeah. Makes life simple.”
“Your house is spectacular. If my mom were here, she’d fall to the floor, weeping.”
He looks at me funny.
“She’s an interior decorator.”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Yeah, I had a top designer helping me.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward floor-to-ceiling glass on the other side of the room. “Lemme show you the view. It’s gonna make you say ‘Holy shitballs.’”
He pulls me outside into the night air and we’re met with a view of what might as well be heaven on earth.
“Holy shitballs,” I say.
Josh grins. “Amazing, right?” He motions to the infinite expanse of twinkling lights and rugged hills spanning before us into the night. “This right here is why people pay an arm and a leg for houses in the Hollywood Hills. Okay, so, over there, between those two hills? The Hollywood sign is right through there—you can’t really see it right now, but I’ll give you binoculars in the daylight. And if you look that way, that’s downtown L.A. over there.”
“Amazing. No wonder you love it here.”
“Oh, I don’t love L.A. I love Seattle. I just tolerate L.A.”
“Really?” I’m floored. I thought Josh loved living in La La Land with all his flashy friends. “I thought you loved living here,” I say.
Josh shrugs. “Nah, L.A. definitely gets old, other than the weather—the weather never gets old.” He points in a new direction. “See that house down there? That’s Chris Pratt’s house... ”
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 least when 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 like this and you don’t cook?”
“Yup. I’m super-smart that way.”
“You don’t cook at 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.”