Page 5 of The Irresistible Distraction

“I meant your completely inappropriate boundaries. It’s outrageous, really, how quickly you escalated from Schrodinger to . . .” I cannot quite make myself say orgasm in front of someone I’ve known for an hour.

The more flustered I get, the broader his grin. “That was inappropriate of me. Tacky, even, considering how controversial Schrodinger’s sexual history was. Usually, I’m better at flirting⁠—”

“And I’ve already made it clear I’m not a fan of⁠—”

He holds a hand out, palm up, another invitation I ignore. “First, given you saved my life, my boundaries feel completely appropriate. Perfect, even. Second, you said you were ‘unattracted by’ flirting the first time, which just tells me you haven’t experienced quality banter. Third, trying everything, outrageously, is kind of my motto.” He pauses, seems pleased that I’m allowing him to continue. “That said, since you’ve already told your friend the sex is not happening⁠—”

“When are you going to stop saying the sex?”

“When it stops being funny.” He points to the stool.

Instead of giving in and sitting, but also, instead of leaving . . . I move a smidge closer, keeping an empty stool between us, resting one arm along the counter, tacitly agreeing to continue our conversation.

“Were you an art major?”

Of course not, because no matter my interests, by then I needed a degree that was applicable; I only enrolled in courses with immediate utility.

“Never went to university, made up for it with library fines and associate’s degrees.”

“Plural?”

“Three so far.” At his raised eyebrows and questioning look, I continue. “Psychology, because I’d completed courses in high school, when you can enroll for twenty dollars a term, but later, business with a healthy side of accounting and, by accident, engineering.”

“How does one accidentally complete an associate’s degree in engineering?”

“By then, I’d gotten used to taking community college classes. I loved that professors assign free online textbooks and seemingly understand how many of us are juggling jobs and outside responsibilities. And . . . I initially—erroneously—believed CAD courses would help me upgrade the diner.”

He smiles and gives a faint shake of his head as I think about everything I’m not sharing, that may or may not be obvious. Namely, that I did, albeit briefly, attend a traditional university. For five weeks, I made the daily one-hour-each-way drive so I could take classes at UC Riverside, turning down every invitation to study together or hang out afterward, believing I could balance everything. But as a new mother, none of it was sustainable—from the time commitment to the emotional strain to textbooks that were (even used) hundreds of dollars.

I don’t realize how long I’ve drifted off for until I feel Sexy Tourist’s warm hand covering mine on the counter. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry, I was thinking about . . . the broken showerhead I have to fix.” The one Jesse had promised to help with, the next time he had time. “Also, some peeling weatherproofing.”

He pauses a beat, waits for me to meet his eyes. “If I were a different man, I might think my game was off, if I’m losing to your to-do list.” He squeezes my hand. “But luckily for you, I’m not that guy. Instead, I’m wondering why a woman with artistic talent and an associate’s in business has purposefully hidden her artwork in a corner. And while we’re on it, why is your best friend so concerned about you?”

“She’s pregnant and bored?”

“Nah.” He tilts his head, his gaze hooded for a moment before he gestures to the empty restaurant. “If you’d benefit from a friendly, anonymous ear, Rita, I’m here for you.”

The deliberate emphasis makes me smile. This man isn’t merely handsome. He’s perceptive. Sharp. Tempting. The way he says Rita makes me want to hear him say Sophie, but I resist. “You don’t think my real name is Rita?”

“Given Maggie’s name tag says Marilyn . . .” He points, without looking, at the Marilyn Monroe print on wall.

My eyebrows rise, even though it’s not a difficult thing to have noticed. “Rita Hayworth, to go along with our vaguely 1950s vibe.”

He leans across the empty stool to murmur, eyes gleaming with amusement, “I’d like to be Clark Gable in this scenario.”

The silence stretches between us, surprisingly companionable.

“Why do you care what my life story is?”

“In part, because I can answer the question you posed to Maggie Marilyn.”

I scrunch my face up, trying to remember the winding, twisty dialogue that is emblematic of every conversation I’ve ever had with my best friend. “When I asked her what I would get out of”—I gesture between us—“this?”

“Exactly. It’s difficult to take a vacation when you live in a vacation town”—he pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in—“I’m offering you the opportunity to take a break from yourself.”

There’s a wistfulness to his voice I don’t let myself ignore. “Is that why you’re here?”