Page 27 of The Irresistible Distraction

My body needs rest.

But apparently, the rest of me has different priorities. “Haven’t gotten around to that degree in astronomy yet, and I’m assuming you didn’t pick this location randomly?”

He hugs me a little closer. He shows me how to find Corona Borealis by locating the Big Dipper first. He helps me find Mercury, even though I’m not positive I’ve actually found Mercury, and then Mars, which at least I’m a little more confident in. He drapes his ruined shirt over me and tells me that next time, we’ll have to make use of the actual telescope, that from here we’d be able to see Cancer, Leo, and Virgo, if we know where to look.

I let the conversation flow around me during the drive back to the diner, enjoying the way he holds my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“The skies are incredibly clear here. Even with the fireworks, it’s better than half the places I’ve been.”

It’s a great reminder that Clark is the Sexy Tourist, here to enjoy Lake Arrowhead in its entirety: the views and the lake, maybe the local girls. Like me.

Try as I might to ward them off, the doubts creep in. “Hopefully, you’ll get some time at our telescope while you’re here.”

“Even without a telescope, your everyday view is . . . glorious.” He pauses, one hand on the steering wheel, the other interlacing his fingers with mine. “The fact that the night sky is simultaneously the present and the past is part of what I’ve always loved about astronomy, that it helps us combine two seemingly incompatible parts of time. Space is time, time is space. Which means we’re looking, right now, at history.”

My breath catches a little at his words. I look at his profile, the face that’s suddenly serious; I memorize his strong, chiseled jawline, trying to imprint this moment so I can take it out later, a gift to my future self, from the present. “That might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard someone say. It’s . . . a love letter to space.”

“Yes.” For the first time, he looks less than a hundred percent charming and confident. It’s adorable, and I find myself covering our interlaced hands with my free one, encouraging him to continue. After a moment, his voice a bit gruff, he tells me, “My love affair with astronomy is on-again, off-again. I studied physics because it was the closest major at my college.” He makes a small grimace, the slightest tightening of his jaw, as he says, “But then I went into the family business.”

He pulls into the back parking lot, and when he comes to a full stop, I say, “Thank you⁠—”

“When can I see you again?” When I hesitate, he says, “Your rules. Your boundaries.”

I huff out a laugh, because I’m not sure I believe he’s capable of keeping this promise.

“I thought we agreed to one really nice night.”

“We agreed that one night was the starting offer. And I figured that given my spectacular performance review, I’d be receiving an automatic contract extension.” There is nothing smug about either his intonation or his expression. If anything, he is perplexed, borderline hurt. We had the same experience but somehow arrived at antithetical conclusions about where this was going (or not).

“Are we sure that’s a good idea?” There is very little thinking when I’m around Sexy Tourist. There is romance and a sense of adventure, a distraction from real life that I can’t afford on a longer time scale. I let myself out of his car, and he follows me to mine.

“I would love to explore this, the idea of us.”

When I hold out a hand to his chest . . . To stop him? Or just to prolong contact? Even I’m not sure. He clasps my hand with both of his, and I swallow at the contact, the memories that are playing out in my mind. “There’s a certain amount of romance to the mystery of this all, having sex with a nameless stranger⁠—”

“Hate to burst your logic bubble, but I’ve done the nameless sex thing.” Though his lips are half curved in that now-familiar smile, his tone is more serious, intent. “This was different. This is in the realm of emotion and connection, which logic is unfortunately unable to add to.”

While I would love to agree, to say I feel something as well, I have no basis for comparison—I’ve known this man for a day and a half. He’s in vacation mode; I’ve been acting extraordinarily out of character. His hands leave mine to cup my face, tilt it toward him. I open my eyes, and whatever he sees there makes him relent a little. He pulls me in for a hug, rubbing my arms and back soothingly.

“Your rules, your boundaries,” he repeats. “But know that I’d love to keep texting you, that I’d love for you to not decide, preemptively and prematurely, to end this. I would love to see you again, maybe even learn your name?”

The right answer, the obvious answer, is no.

“My life is a bit complicated right now.”

“Maybe I like you enough to not mind the complicated.” A slight pause. “More truthfully, maybe I like you. Full stop.”

As the moment drags, I wait for him to grow frustrated and leave, the way Jesse would, whenever I took too long to think, to organize my thoughts, to formulate the right reply.

Instead, one of his hands moves to my head, gently anchoring me to his chest while the other continues to trace a pattern along my back.

“Okay.”

“Okay as in you’re prepared to tell me your real name and agree to a second date? Because I have to admit, I know I said I was okay with being used as revenge sex⁠—”

“That’s not what this was.”

“Is?”