Page 110 of The Irresistible Distraction

“All right, folks, while they’re taking the photographs, we’ve got some cookies—priced at six dollars each today, on special.”

I look over with my not-poker face, because that is a scam and a half. But obviously, Brody knows how to sell the hell out of a moment. People who have never been to my store before, tourists who I’ve seen at the grocery stores arguing with the delicatessen employees about the fact that there isn’t a broad enough selection of artisanal cheeses, are lining up to buy six-dollar-each cookies.

Brody throws me a quick wink but doesn’t otherwise interact with me.

I lead the twins over and they expertly pose themselves, allowing me to click in rapid succession. I use the portable lights because I’ve brought them, but the way Vi and Khloe tilt their heads and hold their different expressions—mouth open and tongue to the side while they look off to the corner, sex appeal oozing out of their pore-less skin . . .

And the way the twins roll their eyes as if the cookies generate orgasms?

I mean, yeah, I could probably charge ten dollars a cookie. Or just . . . charge admission?

Afterward, Khloe asks for a napkin, into which she spits out her cookie, murmuring, “That was actually pretty good.”

Vi not only swallows, she takes another bite. “I don’t usually indulge,” she confides, as Khloe gives her a waspish look.

“Sports Illustrated is next week, and it’ll include Instagram Reels—meaning no editing out flab.”

It’s maybe the bitchiest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say, and I lived through the first part of Adeline’s early menopause after giving birth to Sebastian, so . . . this is really saying something. I’m ready to defend Vi’s right to a little Toll House Therapy, but Vi just gives a small shrug and wraps up the rest of the cookie, her delicate fingers curling into her palms like little claws.

Vi reminds me, in this moment, of a kitten I rescued once, and who was eventually adopted by another family: beautiful but with a feral quality. Docile, until she wasn’t.

Brody interrupts the session then, to let me know he’ll go and pick up Sebastian, because he’s been tracking the time better than I have.

I wish I could say he looks ridiculous in one of the new Keep Calm and Toast On shirts he’s had printed (and which we now sell, in a little display to the side), but it’s not true. He looks delectable, and my traitorous heart stops and then resumes an erratic heartbeat in his presence, as if it’s been weeks—as opposed to barely a day and a half—since I last saw him. His voice isn’t the least bit judgmental when he offers the thing I should have thought of first: “I’ll ask Seba if he wants to come meet the twins, and if not, I’ll take him back?”

Vi reaches out a hand and intertwines hers with Brody’s. “Thank you for this.” It’s an odd thing for Vi Shindler, rising superstar, to say, as if Brody’s done her the favor. He pulls her in for a quick hug and she asks, “Can I text you later?”

Brody nods and gives us a casual wave, gaze lingering on me for perhaps an extra fraction of a second before he leaves.

“He’s still hot,” Khloe observes, stating the blindingly obvious. “And his . . .” She gestures vaguely in the air.

“Olympic-worthy.” I’m surprised at the strength of my own voice. “Like there should be a category for most perfect abs and all the other contestants shouldn’t even bother showing up.”

Vi laughs and even Khloe cracks a smile, and I wonder if this is the type of relationship Brody maintains with his exes and whether this is where Jesse and I might be able to get to one day.

When we finish with the pictures, the twins text their driver, who’s been having lunch at the Lake Arrowhead Country Club. Brody texts to say Sebastian apparently has no real interest in meeting budding Hollywood royalty and would rather go home and play chess.

Technically, the diner should have closed almost an hour ago, but because people who were late to hear the news keep piling in, we stay open. Many seem to mistakenly believe they have to buy something to ask for an autograph, and Walter keeps the till open. We sell out of the overpriced cookies and the popcorn packets (also severely upsold), as well as all the framed photos and the shirts. Even the crocheted blankets (which Vi prices at $250 each, using her Beverly Hills metric) sell. The packaged ones, the display ones, and a waitlist I start while referring them to Maggie’s (barely operational) Etsy page.

While Khloe talks with a group of college kids, Brody’s ex waves me to a semiprivate corner.

“Brody appears content.”

I turn this sentence around in my head but can find no hidden barbs or angles. “He seems to enjoy Lake Arrowhead.”

Vi laughs. “Brody’s capable of enjoying anyone and anywhere. It’s that whole don’t be boring thing he believes in.”

I nod, even as I feel a small twinge of pain. Of course Brody’s stories aren’t all private. He’s a thirty-year-old man who’s admitted to a promiscuous history, and this is the woman he was actually engaged to.

Vi’s silent as we both watch Khloe angling her body in different ways in a rather dispassionate manner; I find that even though both sisters have smiled through countless pictures, many of which had them draped on each other or at least in close proximity, I’ve felt no closeness between them.

Vi reaches out to lay a hand on mine and I feel the silky, almost whipped-cream-like substance of her skin, the slight whiff of strawberries that is unlike any other bottled perfume I’ve experienced.

I have as much in common with Vi as a lump of coal has with a diamond.

One is already in its most beautiful state.

The other . . . is best used in outdoor barbeques.