Page 39 of Consummation

“I can’t tell you,” I say. “It’s too personal. But trust me, it’s something that’s gonna make Josh realize I’m one hundred percent all-in—and also that I’m the woman of his dreams.”

“You’re smiling devilishly,” Sarah says.

“Because I’m thinking somethingdevilish.”

“Gimme a hint,” Sarah says.

“Oh, little Miss Sarah Cruz, you couldn’t handle it, trust me—your head would explode.”

Sarah makes an adorable face. “God, you scare me,” she says.

I look out the window of Sarah’s car again, my skin sizzling and popping with electricity, a happy smile dancing on my lips for the first time in a week.Yes.I know exactly what to do to coax Joshua Faraday to finally let go completely. I’ve just got to make him see he’s absolutely safe with me, in every conceivable way—that I love every little molecule of him, no matter how perverted.

My smile broadens.

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But in the case of my beloved sick fuck, Joshua William Faraday, I’m quite certain the entry point into his tortured heart is through an organ just a tad bit lower on his anatomy.

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. Icraveher 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.

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