Page 102 of The Irresistible Distraction

When he doesn’t, I can’t stop myself from asking, “You okay?”

He gives me a lopsided grin, and I find myself staring at his mouth a moment longer than I should, given he apparently wants to talk. Brody raises his eyebrows before saying, “That’s kind of my line. And one I was going to casually use while asking probing, completely noninvasive questions about how your conversation with your ex went.”

“I’m . . . okay.” I glance at the clock. Plenty of time to set snacks out, not enough time to sit down and really go through the details of what happened with Jesse. “I’d rather make popcorn than talk, if that’s okay?”

It’s clearly not the response Brody was hoping for, but he inclines his head. He heads toward the guest bedroom and pauses at the entry, turning toward me as though he’s going to say . . . something. “Jesse didn’t look or sound like a man who’s giving up anytime soon.” He stares at me, his gaze traveling across my body and studying my face as if cataloguing the individual features, as if we haven’t been practically living together these past few weeks.

I furrow my eyebrows, wondering what, exactly, he’s thinking, but before I can ask, he goes into his room.

When he comes out twenty minutes later, he’s in a likely bespoke suit that hugs his body. Brody’s shoulders are, as always, broad in a way that feels artificial, as if someone took a regularly sized man picture and widened the shoulders just a little too much. His jawline is chiseled, something that even his two days’ worth of stubble can’t hide, and his hair has grown out a little, making its natural curliness just a little more obvious. Between the dark curly hair and the roguish glint in his eyes, he reminds me of some modern-day pirate—like in one of those time-travel romances where a buccaneer is placed in modern times and the heroine has to help him cope with modern-day living.

And though I’ve never thought rogue pirate would be my thing, apparently when it manifests as Brody Branca in a suit, pirate is very much my thing. I feel a primal urge to claim him somehow, climb onto him, rip his clothes off, lick him . . . which isn’t a thought I’ve ever had before, about anyone. I look away, blushing. I’m mostly making different batches of popcorn, which means I’m just preparing seasonings for now. I won’t pop anything until people start showing up, because it will give me something to do and a responsibility I’m used to.

“What I’m hearing is that you think I should dress up more often?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Can’t help what I heard.”

Brody comes behind me and wraps both arms around me, his hands wandering rather too freely given the fact that I haven’t yet had a chance to shower or change. Because he’s freshly showered and has likely just applied cologne, I feel like I’m getting an undiluted dose of Brody. It should be a little too much, and it is, but I still lean into him and breathe in.

He moves my hair to the side and kisses me, his stubble grazing and likely marking my neck where he nuzzles against me. Even though I know I must smell of sweat and hospital, of our afternoon walk and burnt grilled cheese sandwiches, Brody’s tongue licks me as though I’m delectable. He takes his time at my neck, and I find I have to grip the counter as one of his hands moves down to unbutton my jeans and then slip inside me.

Because my back is to him, there’s still two layers of clothing between us, and his arms are around me, there’s nothing I can do in this position, no control I can really exert beyond moaning and grinding against him as his fingers find my center, parting the wet folds easily before slipping inside.

“I’m not sure there’s time.”

“Everyone’s always late,” he tells me, his fingers insistent, his other hand sliding under my shirt to my breast.

Except, of course, it’s Lake Arrowhead and no one is late.

I see the headlights of a car a moment later, and I’m breathless as I tell Brody to stop, please, that there’s no time, even as he presses against me, his erection a hard line against my back. He whispers, “Almost there,” before curling his fingers inside me in a way that has my body bowing, almost prostrate the counter a moment before a car door slams and I hear voices I’m not able to identify in the foggy state of my brain.

Brody’s actions are almost clinical as he helps me smooth down my shirt and rebutton my jeans. I’m the one who’s limp and spent. Despite the rigid outline still visible to anyone looking, Brody appears flawless in his suit. He stares into my eyes, a small, sad smile on his face as he asks me, a bit of wonder in his voice, “Why does it keep getting better with you?”

Then, Mario and Reuben are here, excited for the poker game and dressed up in what I consider their wedding attire, the same from-Amazon suits they wear for all formal events. They’ve brought beer and the leftover muffins from the diner.

“Sophie still has to shower and change,” Brody says. His tone is completely flat, as if he wasn’t just pressed against me less than a minute ago. “Why don’t we try out the gaming systems while we wait for the others?”

The distraction works. Mario and Reuben are so excited about the large TV and game systems they barely glance in my direction, and I hurry across the street on wobbly legs to shower.

Two hours and sixteen guests in, it’s clear Brody from Beverly Hills is here to fleece us. And also… that I’ve underestimated the degree to which Brody’s ingratiated himself into our community, buddying up with Lake Arrowhead locals and tourists alike.

We’re spread out at two tables, which Brody either ordered in the Before Era, when he still had access to a credit card, or . . . he’s now broke and we’re going to be eating instant ramen for the next couple of weeks.

I’m at a separate table, mostly because he took one look at me, freshly showered and actually with a smidge of makeup I’d ordered a week ago, in my slightly longer burgundy thrift store dress, and told me he needed me to sit as far away from him as possible. He’d put us with our backs toward each other and had spread out the players from there.

Because he wasn’t quiet about it, several people heard.

And grinned.

Because apparently everyone in this not-town is on Team Brody.

And . . . either I’m very lucky, or Brody intentionally put me with all the really terrible players. Though Walter isn’t necessarily stoned, he plays as though he’s . . . maybe a little stoned. He giggles whenever he has a good hand and then does an exaggerated frown during the times he has really good cards. He is, quite obviously, the first player to lose all his chips at either table.

The most interesting part of the night is that there’s no actual money being exchanged. Brody explained at the beginning that because he’s currently living life as Broke Brody (he did an exaggerated eye roll at this part, saying that he’s been brought down by the Sophie-led matriarchy) everyone is playing for “favors and labors.”

Walter, for example, exchanged chips for three skateboarding lessons (a prize I guess I’ll be gifting to Sebastian and that I’m not positive I actually wanted), taking on line cook duties for Reuben (this had been a separate exchange, when Walter was close to zero and negotiated a side deal—pretty sure the diner and its customers lose on that one), and a voucher promising he’s going to repaint the parking lot lines (another side deal, made directly with me so he could raise on his last grand stand).