Page 86 of The Irresistible Distraction

I wait until Sebastian has finished his food and seems sufficiently invested in one of the new video games Brody purchased before I cover Brody’s hand with mine.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He’s gathering the dishes and not really looking in my direction. “What for?”

“Being on a group chat with Rachel and Sally.”

“Ah, and here I thought you were going to thank me for not rushing Sebastian across the street and demanding another good night kiss.”

I blush and try to shush him, but as usual, Brody just grins at me.

“About that second date. I was going to take you stargazing, had it all planned out, perfect location in Colorado.”

“Colorado.”

“It’s only a three-hour flight, less if we charter.”

I think back to what Cally said about Brody’s normal tricks and nod.

“But since I’m currently grounded from all my credit cards—” He sees me glance at the Amazon packages that have continued to arrive, en masse, a result of what must have been Brody’s final last-minute shopping spree, and waves them away. “Doesn’t count, those are bare necessities.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m eying the three mountain bikes that showed up. “Do you bike?”

“Used to, thought about it for a hot second, realized I wasn’t sure if you or Sebastian biked, but it was already too late to text you by then. Helmets arrive tomorrow.”

I shake my head, because he really is impossible. I don’t know how much, exactly, he makes, but if he’s this strung out over not being able to shop, it’s certainly going to be an interesting few weeks.

“So, about the stargazing we’re not going on.”

“Yeah, I was going to ask, how do you feel about poker? And like . . . poker parties?”

On Friday, Sebastian goes home with his friend Nate, since they’ll leave for the theater together, meaning Brody and I have almost four hours alone.

I’ve had another insanely productive day—maybe it’s what those studies all say about how people perform under stress, namely, that we’re less effective when overly anxious; maybe it’s just access to an assistant who is oddly versatile in everything from getting me construction quotes to finding companies that specialize in packaging—but it’s frightening how much I’ve accomplished. I also had lunch with Maggie, because I’m way ahead of the chores I had planned, and for once, even though it’s not Sunday, neither of us are working. I bring my camera with me, taking candid photos of Maggie—basically bursting with excitement about her baby—our food, and the skyline. It’s been weeks since I’ve taken any pictures at all, and even though I won’t know which, if any, of these are worth keeping until later, it’s lovely just to be out with a camera and a friend.

We giggle as we comb through the thrift store for baby clothes, and I almost trip running toward her when she lets out a little scream.

“What’s wrong?”

“This!”

Maggie holds a dress up in front of me, though dress might be a misnomer. It’s basically a long, sparkly tank top masquerading as a dress.

“It’s very . . . red.”

“Your best color.”

I stare at it because it’s quite beautiful, with slits on both sides and crisscrossing straps where a back should be. “Where would I wear that?”

“Wrong question. Who? Not where. And the answer is with Brody, obviously.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t have access to his credit card right now, which means we’re unlikely to be going anywhere I’d need to dress up for.” What I don’t say is that I’m unlikely to ever have the courage to wear that outside of my house.

“Okay, first, whose fault is that? You could be living it up at the Ritz or whatever other fancy hotels exist beyond the borders of San Bernardino County. But you chose instead to go through with this nutso deal⁠—”

“It’s not nutso. If we’re going to have a chance, I need to see whether he can live a quieter life.”

“Last I checked, rich and quiet are not antonyms.” Maggie slaps me on my forearm, and I hold out a warning finger because she knows I can’t tickle her back now that she’s pregnant. “You can’t retaliate while I’m in this condition,” she reminds me with a smirk.