The Infatuation (Josh and Kat #1 , The Club #5) (9 page)

“Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I’m
free at last!” Josh’s text says.

I chuckle and tap out a quick reply. “What
happened?”

“Can I get a ‘fuck yeah!’ from the gorgeous blonde
in the front row?”

“Who me?”

“Yeah you! Do you see another gorgeous blonde in the
front row?”

I laugh out loud. “Fuck yeah!” I type. “What am I
‘fuck yeahing’ about?”

“Sarah just called Jonas and asked him to ‘bring her
home.’ Jonas just flew out of here like a bat out of hell to get
her!”

“Fuck yeah!” I type. I can’t wipe the huge grin off
my face. I look across the restaurant again, toward the bathrooms,
but there’s no sign of Cameron yet. I steal a quick glance toward
the bar area and lock eyes with my bodyguard Rodney. He nods and I
smile.

“Jonas kicked me out the minute Sarah called, the
ungrateful bastard,” Josh writes. “Thank God! Because now I’m
freeeeeeeeeee!”

My phone buzzes with an incoming text from
Sarah.

“Jonas is coming to get me!” Sarah writes.
“Woohooooooooo!”

“Woohooooooooooooooo!” I type.

“Woo fucking hoooooooo!” Josh replies
immediately.

Oops. I’d meant that last woohoo for Sarah.
“Woohoo!” I type again, this time to Sarah. “So happy for you,
girlio! Are you feeling better?”

“A million times better,” Sarah writes. “I think I
was depressed. Or high on painkillers? Or both. But I feel like me
again. Woot! Can’t wait to see Jonas. I’ve been going through Jonas
withdrawals.”

“Go get him, honey. I’m actually on a date with
Cameron right now. Remember him from the sports bar when we spied
on Mr. Yellow?”

“OMG! Kat! You mean the baseball player guy?
Kerzoinks! Hottie! Those eyes! That smile! That jawline! Gah!”

“I know. I gotta go. He’s in the bathroom.”

“Okay, I gotta go, too. Jonas will be here any
minute. I’ll call you tomorrow. Have fun with Mr. Razor Commercial.
Bwahahahahahaa.”

“I will. Have fun with Thor. Bwahahahahahaaaaa. I
love you, girl.”

“I love you, too.” She sends me a string of bright
red hearts and I return them, relief and elation flooding me.
Sarah’s back.

I go back to the thread with Josh. “Sarah just
texted me,” I write. “She’s doing a happy dance about Jonas.
Woohoo!”

“Just in time. Jonas was seriously about to lose his
mind. I had to talk him down from standing outside Sarah’s window
with a fucking boom box ten different times.”

“Haha! Sarah would have loved that,” I write.

“Why the hell do girls love that movie?”

“Because it’s romantic.”

“It’s lame.”

“ROMANTIC.”

“By any chance do you have a VAGINA?”

“Why, yes, I DO.”

“Well, then, that explains why you don’t know that
movie is LAME.”

I laugh out loud. “ROMANTIC.”

“No. Standing outside a girl’s window holding a boom
box isn’t ROMANTIC. It’s LAME,” Josh writes.

I scoff at my phone. “By any chance do you have a
PENIS?”

“Why, yes, I DO.”

“Well, then that explains why you don’t know that
movie is ROMANTIC.”

“It’s not romantic. It’s DESPERATE.”

“Sometimes love can feel DESPERATE,” I write. “And
why are we writing selected words in ALL CAPS?”

Cameron slips into his chair across the table from
me and I abruptly put my phone down on the table.

“Sorry I took so long,” Cameron says. “There’s a kid
over there celebrating a birthday so I stopped to say hi and sign
an autograph.”

“That’s so sweet, Cameron. No worries. I was
actually texting with my friend Sarah.” That statement’s not
technically a lie, is it? Even though I’ve fudged the timeline a
wee bit?

“Oh, how’s she feeling?”

“Much better.”

“Good.”

He picks up his menu. “Have you decided what you’re
gonna order?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I haven’t even looked at the menu
yet. Sorry.”

“No worries.”

My phone vibrates with an incoming text, but I
exercise superhuman strength and leave it sitting on the table next
to me.

“I’m really glad we were finally able to get
together, Kat.”

“Me, too. Thank you for being persistent. Sorry I
had to cancel on you.”

He shoots me a sparkling smile. “
Twice
.”

“Twice. Yeah. So sorry about that.”

As bad luck would have it, I cancelled on Cameron
the first time because my place had been broken into by The Club,
and the second was because Sarah had been attacked.

“All’s well that ends well. We’re here now. But I
must admit I was beginning to wonder if your dad is Tony Soprano or
something.”

I laugh. “I don’t blame you for wondering.”

He laughs. “Glad we’re here now.”

“Me, too.”

I bite my lip.

What the hell is wrong with me? Cameron is gorgeous.
And charming. And charismatic. And he just made a cute joke about
my dad being a mob boss, for crying out loud. That was funny,
right?
And I like funny.
So why am I not feeling this? I
felt it when I met him in that sports bar (just before Sarah
dragged me out of there after Stacy the Bitch read her the riot act
in the bathroom).

Cameron purses his lips as he studies the menu.

He’s a total catch. I just need to get my head in
the game. I look at my menu. “So what looks good to you tonight?” I
ask.

“You mean besides you?”

I smile, but I’m forcing it. All I want to do right
now is read whatever text is sitting on my phone from Josh
Faraday.

A waiter approaches the table.

“Hello, folks,” he says. “How are we doing this
evening?”

“Great,” Cameron says. “How are you?”

With Cameron’s attention diverted to the waiter, I
quickly pick up my phone and sneak a peek.

“Well, I used all caps for the word VAGINA because
that word is most definitely all-caps worthy. How it spiraled out
of control from there, I have no idea. I think we should STOP. So,
hey, PG. I’M IN THE MOOD TO CELEBRATE!” Josh’s last text says. “Let
me take you to my favorite restaurant in Seattle. They make the
best MARTINIS in the city. You’ll SCREAM WITH PLEASURE. Oh, and
you’ll like the MARTINIS, too. Snicker.”

My stomach somersaults. Oh my God. Of all the nights
for Josh Faraday to ask me out. This can’t be happening.

“And for you, miss?” the waiter asks.

I look up from my phone. The waiter is looking at
me, his eyebrows raised. My eyes drift to Cameron’s face. He’s
looking at me expectantly.

“What would you like to drink, miss?” the waiter
prompts.

“Uh. Yes. Thank you.” I clear my throat. “A dirty
martini, Grey Goose, two olives, please. Thank you.”

“Great. I’ll get your drinks and come back for your
food order.”

“Thanks,” Cameron says.

The waiter walks away and Cameron picks up his menu
again.

“What are you drinking?” I ask. “I didn’t hear your
order.”

“Just water. I don’t drink,” he says.

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t realize. I can cancel my
martini if—”

He laughs. “No worries. I’m used to it.”

“You don’t drink because you’re sober, or . .
.?”

“I don’t drink during the season.”

I’m relieved. “How long is the season?”

“Including spring training and post-season, if
you’re lucky, about eight months.”

What the fuck? The guy doesn’t drink for eight
months of the year? “Good lord,” I say. “No drinking for eight
whole months? It’s like you’re pregnant once a year.” I shudder
with mock horror. Or maybe it’s just straight-up horror, actually.
That sounds like a fate worse than death to me.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Do you get weird cravings, too—like for pickles and
ice cream?”

He laughs. “Thankfully, no.”

“I really wouldn’t knock drinking as part of a
healthy lifestyle,” I say. “Vodka comes from potatoes. Potatoes are
vegetables. Hence, vodka is a vegetable.” I snort.

Cameron grins politely, but he doesn’t laugh. He
looks back down at his menu. “I’m thinking the surf and turf.
You?”

Ooph. Brutal. Where’s our chemistry? Is it hanging
out with Waldo? I feel like I’m pulling teeth here. Surely, Cameron
must feel the same way. “Yeah, surf and turf sounds good,” I say.
Oh my God, my phone is calling to me like a siren. I’ve got to
respond to Josh’s invitation. “Hey, you know what, Cameron? I’m so
sorry, but I just need to finish something . . .” I motion to my
phone. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

“Okay,” he says tentatively.

“Sarah again,” I say.

“Oh, yeah, take your time.” By the compassionate
tone of his voice, it’s obvious he thinks being there for my
best-friend-Sarah-who-was-stabbed-in-a-bathroom is something
admirable. And, bitch that I am, I’m happy to let him think it if
it means I can get away with texting Josh for a little bit
longer.

“I’ll just be a minute. And then I’m all yours.”

He flashes me a beaming smile. “I like the sound of
that.”

“I’m really sorry, PB,” I text to Josh quickly, my
heart pounding. “I’d love to celebrate your freedom with you with
the best martini in Seattle, but I just sat down for dinner. Can I
take a rain check?”

“HOLY FUCK PUT YOUR FORK DOWN!” he immediately
replies. “I’M COMING TO GET YOU RIGHT NOW! Where are you?”

I bite my lip to keep myself from giggling. “No can
do. I’ve already ordered,” I write.

“Well, then, that’s an easy one. How about I join
you? Are you with friends? Make sure you order whatever you want.
Dinner’s on me.”

My stomach twists. Shit. I stare at my phone for a
long beat, trying to decide how to word my reply. “I’m not with
friends,” I write. “I’m on a date.” I press the send button,
wincing. But I can’t figure out another way to phrase it.

“NOOOOO!” he replies immediately.

I bite my lip again, but it’s no use. A giggle
escapes my mouth. I glance up at Cameron. He’s studying his menu
intently.

“It’s a first date,” I reply. “We were supposed to
go out the night I met you at Jonas’, actually. And then it got
rescheduled and we were supposed to go out the night Sarah was
attacked. And now we’re here. Finally.”

“Kat, the universe clearly doesn’t want you to date
this guy. Get up and leave now! What do you need the universe to do
before you start listening—send a fucking bus crashing into the
restaurant?”

I laugh out loud.

Before I can reply, Josh sends another message.
“Tell him you have to leave. I’ll send a car for you right now.
It’ll be there in five minutes. Tell him NOW.”

I make a face at my phone. On what planet would I
ever ditch Cameron like that? I’m a bitch, but I’m not that big a
bitch. That might be how things happen in movies (and, admittedly,
in one of the many fantasy-pornos that plays inside my head) but
that’s not how nice people in real life act. “I’m not gonna do
that,” I write to Josh. “Cameron’s a nice guy. And I’ve already
cancelled on him twice.”

“So what. He deserved it. He’s a tool.”

“He’s not a tool. Far from it.”

“Yes, he is. Obviously.”

“He’s not.”

“Yes, he is. You wanna know how I know?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because you’re on a date with him and you’re more
interested in texting me.”

I smile broadly.
Touché,
Playboy.

“Ergo, he’s a tool,” Josh writes.

I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t—but I can’t
help myself. “He’s not a tool. He’s a professional baseball
player.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really,” I text.

“Oh. Minor or major league?”

“Major.”

“Bah. He’s probably some benchwarmer, Kat, trying to
impress you. He’s some utility player or relief pitcher who sits
around waiting for someone to pull a hamstring so he can get in the
game. That’s why he said ‘professional baseball player’ instead of
saying his team or his position.”

“Well, a boy in the restaurant just asked him for
his autograph. Do kids ask for autographs from players who sit on
the bench?”

“No,” he writes. “Not usually.”

I smirk.

“Is he on the Mariners?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“The guy says he’s a professional baseball player
and you don’t ask him for what team?”

“No, I just said, ‘That’s cool.’ I was playing it
cool, acting like I didn’t care. That’s a bit of a strategy of mine
with guys, if you must know. A girl should never seem too eager,
especially with a pro athlete.” I attach a winking emoji.

“Ah, clever. The ol’ ‘I don’t give a shit you’re a
major league ball player’ strategy. Clever. Works every time, I’m
sure.”

“Well, it certainly worked this time, anyway.”

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

“LOL.”

“Well, does he live in Seattle?” Josh texts.

“Why are we talking about my date?” I write.

“I need to know what I’m dealing with. Does he live
in Seattle?”

“I’m pretty sure he does. His phone number is
206.”

“What’s his name?”

“Cameron.”

“CAMERON?”

“Correct.”

“
Oh Jesus.
Motherfucking
fuck. Does he have dark hair? About six foot two? Looks like an ad
for aftershave?”

“Yeah! That’s him. That’s what Sarah said! She said
he looks like an ad for razors.”

“Motherfucker! That’s because he IS an ad for
razors. Literally! He’s Cameron Schultz, Kat! Goddammit!”

“Yeah! Schultz! That’s his last name. Now I
remember. You know him?”

“No, I don’t know him personally. I know who he is
because he’s a fucking ALL-STAR! Kat, you’re on a date with the
fucking shortstop for the Mariners!”

“Oh. That’s cool. Haha! Maybe I should have asked
more questions.”

“Kat, this is my worst nightmare right now. You know
that, right? I literally had this very nightmare last night,” Josh
writes.

“Why is this your nightmare?”