Page 24 of The Irresistible Distraction

“Genuine conversation and authentic connection,” he corrects, his conviction quiet. Absolute. “I’m afraid it’s so exceeding my expectations that we’re going to have to exchange real first and last names soon.”

“What if you like Vacation Racquel better?”

“What if I like both?”

I suck in a breath, like a little child who’s been denied a treat. “You said you’d provide distraction, help me with my overthinking.”

A light finger flicks my cheek. “You were the one who upgraded me from distraction to vacation, which means it’s just a matter of time before I work my way up to something else. Perhaps even more quickly than I could have predicted.”

It’s tempting to take him at face value.

Sexy Tourist is, as previously established, objectively fine. Devilishly charismatic. Intelligent and possessed of not only a frighteningly thesaurus-like vocabulary, but also with a combination of confidence and a lack of arrogance that feels rare.

But he’s also obviously used to life on a grander scale, so much so that taking on a day of diner work seemed fun, as opposed to . . . life. He’s able to change plans effortlessly in a way that speaks to a carefree lifestyle that is fundamentally incompatible with my life as a single mother. He’s likely passing through for a weekend with his coworkers. Maybe an entire week.

Eventually, he’ll return to his world, and I’ll deal with what’s left of mine.

There is no upgrading this interlude, this pleasant distraction, to anything other than what it is: a temporary vacation from reality.

And one of us has to say it, to label it for what it is before my heart starts to come up with other, more fanciful ideas.

“Counterproposal: Let Vacation Racquel have this night.”

7

HOPE AND EXPECT ARE VERY DIFFERENT VERBS

Clark’s smile is gentle, not at all smug, as I was afraid it might be. He moves just a little away from the tree he was half lounging against, gazing up at me lazily. Though I feel as though I’ve made the decision, I wonder if I’ve become the easy small-town conquest I’ve heard tourists laugh over.

Even with Maggie’s voice in my ears, saying that I have to live a little, I can’t help but worry.

His voice is a bit gravelly as he asks, “Don’t you want a second date?”

I’m surprised at the hint of sadness in his question, as if he wanted more than an easy conquest. I sit up a little so that I’m no longer leaning against him, angling myself in an attempt to make eye contact. “Were you . . . expecting more than one night?”

“Hope and expect are very different verbs.” His tone is serious, and in the fading night sky, it’s difficult to see or judge his expression. His smile seems wry as he balances on one elbow, his free hand beheading an unoffending dandelion at the edge of our blanket. “But”—another pause, a tilt of his head I can’t quite interpret—“I aim to please. If you only want a night of distraction, who am I to argue?”

“I’m not trying to sound shallow⁠—”

His harsh laugh cuts me off. “Compared to your oceanic depths, I’m a thimble. You shouldn’t be the one who worries that they are found lacking.”

I look down, hoping that the fading twilight hides my blush. “You’re very attractive, and perhaps you’ve heard this before, perhaps I’m not being as articulate as I ought, but if you want a second date, I’m not against it, I’m just trying to gauge and match expectations. If all you want is a one-night stand, I would be okay with that. I’ve never . . . I’d like to . . . experience it with someone I feel a connection with. A spark.”

Clark smiles, still not looking at me, his gaze aimed at my midriff, at best. “If you take all my best lines, I’ll be left with nothing.”

“Is that normally a line?”

“Of course.” His hand goes to my waist, this time sneaking under the cardigan and tank top, his long fingers brushing lightly against my skin. “Physical touch triggers the release of dopamine, and it’s not difficult to conflate physical pleasure with something more magical. Passion, affinity, are often more romantic labels for what is a neurochemical cascade.”

“This can’t be how you usually talk to women.” I mean to sound reprimanding, or at least somewhat in control, but it’s hard to keep the breathlessness out of my voice when his fingers continue to smooth across my skin, teasing me along the waistband of my skirt.

“Correct. This is nothing like how I normally talk to or pursue women. Which was rather the point.” His hand leaves my waist long enough to reach forward and curl around my neck, pulling me toward him gently, fingers moving to tangle in my hair, angling my head so that his lips caress the hollow beneath my ear. His breath is warm against my skin as he murmurs, “I’m not enough of a gentleman to fight you on this. But let me be abundantly clear. As far as I’m concerned, one night is the starting bid.”

The summer night is warm and enveloping, and the sounds are a mixture of crickets and katydids. The odd rustling and his playlist seep into my awareness as I meet his gaze. “Okay.”

I expect my acquiescence to lead to a more immediate reaction, but though he sits up enough to lean against the tree we’ve set up camp against, though he pulls me to him enough to slip off my cardigan and position me, back to him, within the cocoon of his spread legs, he does not kiss me. Instead, he adjusts me until he can massage my neck and shoulders, his hands strong and sure.

Seconds pass, and though I mutter, “You don’t have to—” he ignores me, and finally, giving in, I say, “Harder.”