Page 7 of The Irresistible Distraction

I laugh because it’s a ridiculous statement, nothing like anything anyone has ever said to me, but in the next moment I have to stop and catch my breath as one of his hands tugs at the tank top, pulling the thin fabric free from the poodle skirt until he’s able to position his hands on my bare waist and midriff. He pauses, thumbs smoothing small patches of skin, giving me plenty of opportunity to stop him as his lips drift down my jawline and then along my neck.

My eyes flutter closed and it’s difficult to remember the fragment of a thought—or complaint?—I’d been formulating before his lips were pressing against the vulnerable pulse at my throat. “Didn’t I ask you not to flirt with me?”

“Flirting implies plausible deniability. Ergo, I am not flirting, I am unequivocally stating an objective truth. You taste better than I imagined.” His lips continue to explore the column of my neck as I arch away, not to move away, but to grant him greater access, my fingers remaining laced in his hair. He squeezes my waist slightly, guiding me more fully into his embrace, his voice husky with desire and amused delight. “Though I am disappointed you’re still speaking in complete sentences.”

His lips find mine again, and this time I open without any additional persuasion. I press into him as our tongues tangle, wishing our kiss would never end, that I could revel in his breath and touch forever.

One of his hands travels upward, stopping right under my plain cotton bra, and it’s only then that I realize how quickly I’ve let everything proceed. He pauses, as if sensing my sudden hesitation.

“We could hang out here for a little bit.” He kisses the edge of my ear, his words a different kind of caress.

I shift a little, shaking my head and leaning in. “Please?”

“Under normal circumstances, that’s a wonderful word. Here, it’s a bit ambiguous.” His smile blossoms against my neck before he sucks gently at my pulse, one hand skimming down the side of my chest, away from where I want him, before the fingers trail up. His pace is indolent, his voice an aphrodisiac I never realized I was capable of responding to, much less craving. His gravelly voice keeps me tethered to him, in this moment, hyperfocused on his words. “Please could mean please continue.” He moves to cup my breast over the bra, which feels a thousand layers thick. “Or it could mean stop.”

Matching his actions to his words, his hand stills, his mouth mere centimeters from mine, letting our breaths mingle.

Waiting.

And I feel foolish, to be twenty-eight years old, to have already birthed a child, and to only now finally experience what people mean when they say their partner takes their time, that the anticipation is part of the enjoyment. Still, I’m unused to voicing my desires, and my voice is aggrieved as I say, “Please don’t stop.”

I can feel his smile as his lips reconnect more fully with mine. He edges his hand under my bra to cup my breast in a way that has me clenching my thighs.

Then his lips meet mine again, and I am absolutely drowning in sensation. Leaning against him, I can feel the way my knees weaken, the effort it takes to hold myself upright when all I want to do is melt into the floor as his tongue tangles with mine, as his fingers lightly brush my breast and⁠—

Quite suddenly, Clark tears himself away from me, hands firm on my waist as he supports me against the stool for a moment before he practically jumps over to the photographs, running fingers through his hair. I open my mouth to ask, and then I hear it, the sharp push against the front door. The fact that the frame is swollen and sticks a little when customers enter becomes my saving grace, allowing me precious seconds to tuck my tank top back into my poodle skirt. I slip under the diner’s counter flap (that I would normally lift if my brain was capable of functioning on a basic level) so that I’m standing in back of the main register a half second before the front door finally opens.

“Adeline.” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds as I speak to the woman I had thought of as my once and future mother-in-law. As always, her face is perfectly made-up to highlight her sculpted cheekbones; tasteful diamonds sparkle at her ears, throat, and wrists. She leans across for her customary air kiss, engulfing me in her signature Boadicea the Victorious perfume, the one she constantly reminds people has a four-digit price tag and ships only from the UK. She glances at Clark, who is studiously examining the photographs, before settling gingerly on the stool in front of me.

“Locking up late again?”

I glance at the clock. It’s barely a quarter past three, which means my interlude lasted less than half an hour. “Curse of being a small business owner. Every paying customer is a blessing.”

Adeline rarely comes between the posted 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., often tapping on the door after I’ve already locked up.

And she never pays.

“You know it’s difficult for me to get here during your official hours.”

Considering Adeline’s days consist of golfing, shopping, and lunching with her friends between private Pilates lessons, I know no such thing.

Recognizing that she’s not going to get a reaction from me, Adeline turns toward Sexy Tourist, who has removed two framed photos.

“Normally, she closes at three.” It’s rude and patronizing, because being rude and patronizing is her favorite way of reminding people she’s Adeline Williams from the Williams family, the owners of the third-largest estate in Lake Arrowhead.

So that I have something to do, I head to the coffee pot and start on Adeline’s to-go cup. All my regulars know I take leftovers home. The running joke is that I regularly drink day- or two-day-old coffee because my palate can’t tell the difference.

The truth is that the profit margins on beverages are hilariously good and I’ve actively cultivated the idea that Keep Calm and Toast On always has fresh, hot coffee.

“Two creams and three Splendas.”

From the corner of my eye, I watch as Clark takes a third photograph down to check its price.

Instead of saying thank you, Adeline twists the cup. “Considering you have a child at home, you ought to be better about sticking to diner hours.”

“I held her up.” Sexy Tourist saunters over to the register, placing two photographs carefully on the counter, one large hand resting on the edge. It’s all . . . perfectly appropriate, but my cheeks flush as I think of where his hands were a moment before, remembering the warmth and tenderness of each caress. “I’d love to purchase these.”

To my right, Adeline lets out an unkind laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve been attempting to monetize your little hobby.”