Page 33 of The Irresistible Distraction

Brody turns toward me, mirroring my son’s pleading puppy eyes. “Yes, why? We’re having loads of fun, and it’s no trouble.”

Vera tries to give Brody a warning look, because it’s abundantly clear Brody’s never dated a single mother and doesn’t understand that you should always check with the parent first. I’m trying not to utter the dreaded because I said so, but the honest answer—that I accidentally-on-purpose slept with someone I didn’t know the real name of and now need some alone time to come to terms with the consequences of my own actions—is also off-limits.

“Because—”

I’m dragging it out, hoping Vera saves me. And she does. “Sorry, Sebastian, but I need time to catch up with my nephew. Brody hasn’t been here in a decade.”

“Has it really been that long?” Brody looks genuinely surprised. “You came to”—he sneaks a glance at me—“my botched unwedding.”

“Yes, I heard all about it,” I confess. “You guys broke up the day before the ceremony and played paintball to see who would get the grand Bali honeymoon.”

Instead of seeming embarrassed or offended, Brody’s smile deepens, his eyes intent. “So you have heard of me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to not roll my eyes. I can’t simultaneously try to break Sebastian of the habit while capitulating. “Little of it was good. Particularly the part where you haven’t come to see your favorite aunt in ten years.”

Brody turns toward Vera, as if mentally combing through the last decade.

His aunt’s tone is gentle as she murmurs, “Sophie and I were talking about it earlier today. She reminded me that your last visit was on the way to Big Bear.”

“Originally, you and your friends were going to stay for almost a week.”

I watch Brody both remember and then flush—a clearly guilty pink that spreads across his stupidly chiseled and obnoxiously handsome features.

This is why women make bad decisions.

It’s hormonal.

Evolutionary.

Physiological necessity aimed at the continuation of the species.

How else to explain the fact that even though I now know that Clark/Brody/Sexy Tourist is the ultimate fuckboy, one who still collects an allowance from his father, I still feel a pull. An awareness that’s never been there with any other man. An attraction I cannot label under any other name.

It’s exasperating. Infuriating. Maddening.

“I’m sorry. That college trip was—” He pauses, gathers himself. “I should have planned better.”

“And all the years since?” It really has nothing to do with me, which both Vera and Brody must know, but it’s important to me, to know which version of this man is the real one.

“Especially after Uncle Vernon passed, I should have made the time. I’m sorry.”

His words are said calmly and without heat. It’s a simple, straightforward apology, which should not be hot. But it is, kind of. I square my shoulders, because by now I should be used to well-intentioned man-boys who talk a good game.

See Jesse.

See probably any guy at the beginning of any relationship.

Vera starts tearing up. “You’re great about calling and sending flowers,” she says, forgiving him almost instantly.

“Big Bouquets,” Brody repeats, his words slow. “Well, that’s the point of this summer, right? To reprioritize.”

“You’re not working?”

Vera was vague on the details beyond saying her nephew needed a place to stay for a few months in a way that perfectly aligned with her plans: a few weeks in New England to visit her sons, followed by the monthlong European extravaganza Brody had gifted her.

When Vera told me, I initially assumed her nephew had gotten himself fired, and I wondered about the type of man who’d lose a job and gift his aunt a vacation in one fell swoop.

It didn’t really matter to me then, and it shouldn’t now. I never asked Clark what he did for a living. Why should it matter if all Brody does is collect that monthly allowance?