Page 31 of Sweet Distraction

“Hi. Um. Hi,” I say. My voice just screeched like nails on a chalkboard.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He moves past me toward the fridge. My eyes try not to track the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips. Or the trail of ink running down his ribs. Or the fact that he smells like clean soap and exhaustion and something stupidly masculine.

This is not helping.

“Didn’t catch much,” he says absently.

I nod too fast. “Cool. Yep. That’s great.” I want to die.

Don’t look at him, Willow. Don’t . . . for the love of God that’s much easier to think than do because the man is . . . there. Right before me.

Looking like that.

Smelling like that.

He just oozes sex appeal even when he’s not trying to.

“Everything good?” he asks as he empties the last sip of his drink and sets the glass down on the counter.

“I thought you said you’d be gone until the morning.” Why is my voice shaky?

“That was the plan.” He opens the fridge. Shuts it. Moves to the pantry. “Plans change.”

“Was this some kind of test?” I blurt out.

He stops and glances over his shoulder. “Test?”

“To see if I was going to rip you off? To see if I’m trustworthy?” I shrug. To see if I’m going to admit to my bestie how fuckable you are.

“Nah. Everything I have here is replaceable.” His eyes hold mine. The silence stretches. He studies me, eyes wandering down to my tank and shorts.

Shit. I didn’t put a bra on because I didn’t expect to see him.

And yes, of course, right as rain, I can feel my nipples hardening and no doubt pressing against the thin fabric of my tank top.

Just awesome.

Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe . . . who the fuck am I kidding? He notices, all right. I see the bob of his Adam’s apple. The tightening of his jaw. The twitching of his fingers.

“You’ll know if I’m testing you, Willow.”

The way he says my name. It’s the first time I actually think he has, and it has chills running over my skin.

This is wrong.

All kinds of wrong.

I have never, ever thought one of the dads I’ve worked for in the past have been hot. I never, ever even remotely considered the thoughts I am thinking in the odd instances I found myself completely alone with the father before.

But I’m thinking them now.

“Did you need something?” he asks, eyebrows narrowing. The food it seems we both came in here for completely forgotten for the moment.

My eyes dart down to his abs. To the low-slung waistband of his sweats.

Big mistake. Huge.

“I was out here to look at—we need to talk about . . . toddler-proofing.”