Page 67 of The Irresistible Distraction

ME: Does the sarcasm come through when I text?

ME: Because apparently two different men decided it would be appropriate and romantic to declare their intentions in my diner parking lot at the same time.

A moment later my phone rings, and even though it’s almost ten and I’m exhausted, all of the warm glowy goodness I thought I’d collected and bottled up over the past couple of days completely drained away, I answer.

“The location did kind of suck ass.”

I laugh. “That’s not an apology.”

“I don’t know Jesse well enough to demand he rectify the situation. But I agree, he should apologize.”

“And you’re cursing again.”

“First, Seba’s not here, meaning no reason to stick to the vulgarity hierarchy. Second, cursing is kind of my love language. As is touch, kiss, and a number of other things I believe you’ve been able to experience on a more intimate level, and third, if Jesse can say fuck, I need to at least get ass.” Brody pauses. “Come to think of it, I’m fine with either interpretation of that sentence. You can allow me to work that one word into our daily conversations, or you could sacrifice your body to maintain the purity of my language.”

“No. To all of the above.” Even though I’m trying to be firm, my voice is a tad breathless, my cheeks warm. I’m certain Brody can hear the smile creeping into my voice.

“Since Jesse’s doing the morning drop-off, I’m free until it’s time to pick up Sebastian, right?”

“Thank you.” My voice is quiet, grateful that Brody doesn’t seem to be pushing for more, that he’s back to his all-jokes mode.

“And Sophie?”

“I’m here.”

“You don’t have to answer now if you don’t want to, and I get that the diner parking lot was a shit place and my tone left something to be desired, but . . . I hope you know that I meant what I said. I want to be serious with you. Commitment.”

“It’s been a couple of weeks,” I whisper. “You can’t really know that.”

“Romeo and Juliet married and unalived themselves within a few days.”

“Did you really just say unalive?”

“I’m a divorce attorney. Do you know the amount of slang I hear?”

I’m smiling again, because how can I not? No matter the situation, Brody helps me find the fun. Reminds me to find joy in the ridiculous. Even in a literal apocalypse, Brody would be that guy juggling geckos to distract you. “That feels like perhaps the worst literary example you could have mentioned, given how that play ends.”

“Yeah, but I’m not proposing. I’m just asking that you not . . . stop this before it’s had a chance to fully begin.”

I take a deep breath, and my voice is soft as I say, “Good night, Brody.”

“Good night.”

And then we stay there, quietly, on the phone, like some ridiculous puppy-love high school couple who argue about who should hang up first.

His breathing evens out, and I wonder if he’s asleep or if he’s just forgotten the call is still going.

“I have to be up early,” I remind him finally.

“So hang up already.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“There’s my girl.”

And then he chuckles, the sound still ringing in my ears, as he hangs up on me.

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