Page 9 of The Irresistible Distraction

“Obviously, we want what’s best for Sebastian, even if we do sometimes disagree with certain of your parenting decisions.” She answers smoothly, always ready. “But if you’ve become unhappy, I could talk to Judge Benson.” I smile at the not-so-subtle reminder of how connected the Williamses are. “At the time, we believed the inclusion of the diner would ensure you had a way to thrive.”

“How could I forget the diner.” There’s no question in my voice, only edges that apparently even Adeline doesn’t press against.

Usually, we don’t broach these topics quite so directly.

Then again, Adeline’s more restless than usual.

She sips at the seemingly never-ending cup, looking at her watch before she steeples her fingers. “Perhaps it’s time for me to move our conversation along. Jesse hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you yet, but he’s just gotten a job offer, head of emergency services at Lake Arrowhead.”

4

AND YOU STAY CLARK?

While Adeline obviously wanted to be the one to deliver the news and gauge my reaction, she is either unable or unwilling to answer any of the questions I ask (if Jesse has decided to move back and accept the position, and if so, when he would start), and of course she doesn’t volunteer information on the concerns I leave unvoiced (namely, does that mean Jesse hasn’t proposed to his girlfriend, got turned down, or is Jesse relocating with his future bride).

Before she leaves, Adeline turns back, half in, half out, hesitating, displaying an unusual-for-her level of anxiety. “You’ll let me know if he reaches out?”

“Considering Jesse didn’t tell me about the job offer, I think you’d hear first.” At her continued silence, I relent. It’s so rare for me to see Adeline exhibit any vulnerability, and she’s clearly . . . agitated. “Jesse texts a few times a week, but it’s usually to coordinate about Sebastian.”

Adeline shakes her head, murmuring something about raising boys before letting herself out.

Only after I turn back to the counter do I look at the note Sexy Tourist left on the receipt. His handwriting is bold and large, much like the man himself.

Ready to exchange life stories.

Willing to provide unparalleled business advice, as repayment of life debt.

But also . . . able to provide ample alternative distractions, if that’s your preference.

—Clark

His phone number is below, and my hands are almost shaking as I refold the receipt, tucking it carefully into the inside pocket of my backpack.

The sensible thing to do would be to shred the note now. Otherwise, the temptation to call or text Clark, to pursue a night, or even another hour, will likely be overwhelming. I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed bantering with someone so much, the last time someone was so focused while . . . listening. And I’ve never been touched like that, responded like that, to anyone.

But my life is already overfull of not just commitments but complications. Jesse and whether he’ll be moving back, what that might mean to our custody agreement, and most importantly, how Sebastian will feel about it all.

There is no time or attention that can be easily overwritten by a man like Sexy Tourist.

Still, he is all I think about on the drive home. His long lashes and that damn dimple. His voice as he teased me. The warmth of his gaze and the soul-stealing pleasure of his touch.

Twenty minutes later, my neighbor, former high school art teacher, and forever confidant, Vera, opens the door and leans in for a one-armed hug as her dogs jump on me.

“Leave Sophie alone,” Vera commands. But as usual, Spock and Kirk are hopeless. The two golden labs were trained to locate, flush, and retrieve. They were bred to be well behaved, patient, and obedient. Instead, they fight each other while trying to nuzzle against me, almost knocking me over in the process. Also, at four years old, they both still make messes Sebastian, Vera, and I are always cleaning up.

I bend to scratch their ears and let them loll at my feet. Vera points toward the dining table and mouths, Bad day before heading into the kitchen, giving me a moment alone.

“Hey.” I walk over to where my son is reading The Feynman Lectures on Physics, the book we had to order via special request, and which has nothing to do with his history homework. “Could I get a hug?”

Sebastian goes from chewing on the sides of his fingers to looking up at me, eyes wide with surprise as a slow smile spreads over his face. “When did you get here?”

“A moment ago. How’s that homework coming along?”

He gives my arm a quick squeeze before ducking out of my hug. “I probably forgot.”

“Vera probably reminded you.” Likely multiple times.

“Yeah.” His focus is back on an open notebook; he’s taken copious notes and is adding to a complicated diagram I’ve no hope of understanding. There’s not a speck of the American history he’s supposed to be working on.