Page 3 of The Irresistible Distraction

Maggie shakes her head and waggles a finger at me, one hand pressed on her lower belly while her brows furrow a little. I tilt my head, not needing to ask, and her face softens into reassurance. “I’m fine, just need rest. But this . . . is to be continued.”

She saunters away, making sure Sexy Tourist is turned away before she mouths, Do him, Sophie as she exits, her dramatic departure hindered only slightly by the swollen-shut door that sticks a little as the bell jingles above. Left to myself, I clean up the Shepards’ table and split their modest tip into my Now and Future purses, wiping everything down one last time while I mentally review chores (laundry, permission slip, order Splenda for the diner) and the ones I might get to if I’m lucky (the broken showerhead, finding a handyman for the jukebox). Even knowing my neighbor Vera will be picking up Sebastian and watching him until we all eat dinner together, I know there’s zero chance of my following through on Maggie’s suggestion. It’s not just that I’ve never had a one-night stand—it’s that Tyler 2.0 is the only person I’ve slept with outside of Jesse. It felt so wrong, I was almost nauseous afterward. No need to rehash it.

Though I go through the motions of checking the back kitchen, everything’s already pristine from when our head cook (who is also our lead and short-order and everything cook) left earlier. When I’ve stalled as much as I can, I stop by Sexy Tourist’s table. “Anything else I can get you?”

He looks up at me and grins. It is a devastatingly handsome expression, all dimples, gleaming white teeth, and confidence. He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Four years since the sex, huh?”

2

WHEN IT STOPS BEING FUNNY

“You’re not listening to music.”

“I’m not listening to music any longer,” the man corrects, clearly some sort of rules lawyer. “The AirPods ran out of charge, and I didn’t bother to remove them.”

“What’s that saying? Eavesdroppers never hear any good about themselves?”

He gives a small shake of his head, long lashes covering half-hooded eyes. “Oh, I have excellent filters, and my superpower is internalizing whatever I hear as the compliment it was intended to be.” His smile transforms into something slightly lopsided, showing off one dimple as he motions to the other side of the booth, inviting me to join him. His entire demeanor is sexy and approachable, two qualities I didn’t realize could synergize, a manner that he’s no doubt practiced.

Crossing my arms primly, I say, “I’m happy standing.”

“Easier access to . . . ‘climb me like Everest’?” The grin has widened, the fading sunlight granting him a halo effect that is in direct juxtaposition to the positively devilish grin on his face.

“You could have said something.”

“I could have.” His eyebrows arch slightly, his words a drawl as if he’s pondering my implied reprimand. “But then I wouldn’t be able to tell you that I also think you’re objectively very fine.”

My cheeks warm. I know he’s flirting, that this is what people—specifically our often wealthy and by definition transient tourists in particular—do.

But I have almost no experience in this arena.

Negative experience, if such a thing were possible.

Years of growing up as Jesse Williams’s childhood sweetheart, a fate the entirety of Lake Arrowhead accepted, meant everyone treated me as a hands-off, already-taken entity.

Like the Rick Springfield song my father used to listen to, no one wanted to pursue Jesse’s girl.

And Jesse saw no need to flirt with me . . . because he’d also already known I was his.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t say things like that.”

“Are you allergic to compliments?”

“I’m both unused to and unattracted by . . . flirting. So it’s unappreciated by me and wasted effort for you.”

Whatever else I might have responded with is lost as the man gives a sudden jerk backward, shaking the booth so violently I can practically hear the nail I used to reinforce it with clatter away.

“What?”

“Brown recluse, in back of you.” His voice is a half whisper, his almost turquoise eyes unnaturally large as he holds out an arm in my direction, pointing with a shaky finger as he presses himself against the now-flattened window blinds.

I turn slowly. This wouldn’t be the first time a spider’s landed on my shoulder. Then I see the harmless creature he’s talking about. It’s hanging not far from a web anchored in the broken jukebox corner. “That’s an arrowhead orb weaver. Brown recluses aren’t native or particularly common to Southern California, though we have brown widows, which would have a more mottled yellow spotting and a far messier nest.”

Even as I’m lecturing in my soothing voice—the slightly monotonous tone I adopt when calming Sebastian after a nightmare—I’m reaching around the counter for a clear plastic soda cup and my projects journal, because I don’t want to abandon Sexy Tourist to rummage for cardboard. “You can tell from the web.” I point above as I wave my arms to try to scare the spider into moving to a more accessible position. “Brown recluses tend to create messy, disorganized retreats. Orb weavers, on the other hand, give us these beautifully classic wheels with nearly symmetric radiating spokes.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a closet arachnologist.” His voice is husky, even while he’s clearly still anxious.

“Nope.” Though I have to move a chair to get close enough, I’m finally able to place the cup over the spider. It drops down and I remove the cup quickly, letting my journal act as a temporary lid before it has a chance to escape. “But Lake Arrowhead has its fair share of spiders, and while I used to be”—I glance over, trying (and failing) to suppress my smile as Sexy Tourist remains backed into the wall—“almost as frightened as you are, I’ve since learned to get over it.”