Page 78 of Consummation

“I love you,” I coo. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Infinity.”

“I love you, too,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m good now. Momentary blip. I’m ready to get in there and give ’em the Playboy Razzle-Dazzle.”

“They won’t know what hit ’em, baby,” I whisper.

“That’s right,” he says. He glances toward the house, unmistakable anxiety flickering across his face. “The Josh Faraday charm-bomb’s about to go off all over your family’s unsuspecting asses.” He swallows hard. “Ka-boom, baby. Let’s do this shit.”

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 gotreallygood 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 tohimself,” Dax added.

“And now our family’s sort of obsessed with it,” I said. “It’s kind of our family’sthing.”

“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 lostagain.

“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 onbothlosing teams?”

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