Page 20 of The Irresistible Distraction

We take his car, an obviously new, very expensive, hot-pink electric Mercedes he had parked around the back. Considering I remember how my father agonized over what color Prius to get, I know there’s no way this is a standard factory-issued tint. I’m sure there’s a story there, but I decide to go in another direction.

“So I’m guessing you’re not actually a handyman.”

He chuckles. “I did a little building in college—not houses so much as catapults, other things we used for pranks—but otherwise no, not particularly handy. Nor can I cook.”

“Not even a little?”

“Let’s just say I was good enough at physics to trade kitchen duty for tutoring. Actually, there were a lot of things I traded for physics.”

“Loved math, which everyone told me would be related, but I loathed physics.” Which is a shame, because these days, it seems to be the only subject Sebastian’s interested in. Not the biology and chemistry his father would be able to help with, and not the math, psychology, business, foreign languages, or history that are all more in my wheelhouse.

“You know ASL?”

I’ve been trying to remember how to sign physics, weaving my fingers slightly, subconsciously. And I absolutely love that he noticed. Most days, I’m nearly invisible to the regulars. “I learned a little, when my kid was a baby, because everyone said they’d pick up more signs than words, and then more recently, I completed a couple of courses. It’s not for a degree this time, and learning via asynchronous videos isn’t ideal, but we have a couple regulars who are deaf.”

“That’s kind of you.” He makes no effort to hide the surprise in his voice, and I find myself laughing in response.

“Hardly.” I look away, hoping he doesn’t see my blush. “It’s good business.”

It’s the same excuse I gave Jesse when he asked why I was still enrolling in community college classes, but instead of just nodding, Sexy Tourist smirks a little, before pressing. “You think they’ll spend more because you can sign menu items?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Not an answer, let’s try that again. Did you take ASL believing fluency there would help your bottom line?”

“No.” I’m still looking away, wondering if this is how Sebastian feels when I press him for information he doesn’t want to articulate.

“You’re fascinating, you know that?”

If I could, I’d turn my head even farther away, because this conversation is that uncomfortable. “It’s basic thoughtfulness.” My voice is quiet, small, because I wish he hadn’t used that word, fascinating. “I’d rather you not—use words like that.”

“Because compliments are anathema?”

“No, but I know who I am. I’m the dependable one. The best friend. The unironically, asexual, no-innuendo-implied good girl. No one’s ever even pretended to find me . . . interesting, much less fascinating. And it’s not necessary here. I’ve already agreed to come with you, and you’re clearly very experienced and⁠—”

“I’m going to stop you there.” He finds a stretch of road to pull over on. “Other than our names, which I’m happy to exchange as soon as you’re ready, I don’t plan on being even the tiniest bit dishonest with you. When I say you’re fascinating to me, it’s because it’s the truth. Where I’m from, people are always overselling and exaggerating. They’ll pose next to a food bank, maybe write a check, but they’ll absolutely expect to be praised for their efforts, minimal as they are. The kindness you show to your friends and customers, the quiet way you deduct items off the bills of regulars who look less well-off, and the fact that you clearly do everything you can, including learning another language, to put people at ease, and not only do you not want credit for it, you hope it goes unnoticed? To me, that is alien. Absolutely intriguing.”

I swallow. That is a lot to have noticed in a single day. “I’m genuinely interested in languages.”

“Google Translate isn’t good enough?”

“It doesn’t capture the nuance.”

“Which you’re good at.” He looks over with a smirk. “The details in your pictures are lovely.”

I color a little. “What makes you think I don’t want attention?”

“The photographs that don’t match the rest of the décor, that are crowded into one small corner. The way you skim little amounts off the bills. Most people cheat in the other direction, and it’s called embezzlement.” He taps his other hand on the steering wheel, lifting one brow. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Four. Enough Mandarin to be conversant, mostly because I considered tracking down my birth parents when I was younger. Spanish, from middle and high school. ASL. And I know a little Russian.”

“That’s five.”

“English doesn’t count.”

“Genuine modesty.”

“It’s not⁠—”