Page 3 of Sweet Distraction

I stumble down the hall toward the door. I’m in boxers but don’t give a fuck because the sunlight pouring in through the windows is enough to cripple a man.

Bang. Bang. Ba—

I throw open the door. “What?”

The person standing on the other side is not a fan. Not paparazzi. Not a woman looking for round two. And yet I know exactly how she got past the guard at the gate because she’s on my visitor’s list.

I just never actually thought she’d visit unless I was in trouble or about to be arrested.

Um . . . I look both ways to see if there are police somewhere and then let my shoulders fall when I see that there’s no one waiting to ambush me.

Why the hell is my lawyer standing at my door at this ungodly hour?

“Sandra?” I groan in protest.

“It’s eleven, Gavin,” she says using my real name. “You should already be up.” Her expression is calm, professional, and totally unimpressed by the half-naked rock star glaring at her through bloodshot eyes.

Isn’t that the reason I hired her as my lawyer? Dogged, unfazed, and efficient. I’ve never had her be that way with me, and I’m not exactly in the mood for it.

I rub a hand down my face. “Technically true. Still rude.”

“Thank you for inviting me in. I’d love to take a seat.” She snorts and the way she pushes past me and into my house has dread trickling through me. I shut the door and follow her determined walk and slicked-back bun.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, the mental fog clearing much faster than I would’ve preferred.

She spins on her heel once she reaches my kitchen, her sharp gray suit somehow making my house feel underdressed. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“Is that a yes?” I ask. Her eyes track over my living space as if she’s ready to judge. Thank God I only just got home so it’s clean—and for some reason, I think I need that on my side in this bizarre moment. “Because I’m beginning to think you’re not here to talk about contracts or rights or—”

“The name Olivia Whitmore ring a bell to you?” Her eyes narrow with the words.

“Should it? I meet a lot of people every day. Why would that name stand out?”

“Let me rephrase, and maybe the context will help. Do you remember sleeping with a woman named Olivia Whitmore?”

“Olivia?” I fumble through my scattered thoughts and try to place the face that belongs to the name. The haze clears just enough for it to register and erase any trace of alcohol that might have been left in my system.

Olivia.

A smirk toys at the corners of my lips. Her raspy voice and throaty laugh are vague but there. Long hair. Brown eyes. Incredible body. And a helluva lot of fun in the sack.

“Olivia. Olivia Whitmore,” she says, her smile suggestive and her eyes addictive.

“I don’t do last names, sweetheart. Never remember them.”

“I’ll guarantee when I’m done doing the things I want to do to you that you’ll remember it just fine.”

“Is that a dare?”

“It is.”

“Then by all means . . . dare accepted.”

The woman did know how to make a lasting impression—for a while anyway. The years that have passed—and the women since then—definitely made sure of that.

“You do remember her,” Sandra says, but her resigned sigh unnerves me.

I shift uncomfortably. “Vaguely, but yes. If it’s who I’m thinking of, we hooked up a few years ago.” I try to place the when and the where. Sometimes in this life of mine, it all runs together. “It was after we played that charity event at Hollywood Bowl. Maybe twice? Loved tequila. Red heels. Something about her laugh caught my ear. Why?”