Page 34 of Sweet Distraction

He raises his hands. “Never questioned if you were, Wills.”

It takes me a second to hear the nickname. To process that he’s calling me it. To realize I like it when I don’t want to like it. “It’s Willow.”

He chews his bottom lip and nods. “So which flavor, Wills?”

I eye him dubiously, but the sound of my stomach growling breaks through the silence and has a grin crawling over his lips. He pushes the two flavors toward me.

“C’mon. Don’t be shy. Break ice cream with me,” he jokes. The man goes from seductive to intimidating to welcoming so fast that it’s hard to keep up.

“Fine. Thanks.” I select Rocky Road, offer a smile as I make sure to keep my distance from him as I do, and then take a seat on the opposite side of the island to him.

“Rocky Road. That choice says a lot about a person.”

“What’s that?”

“It says you like a little chaos with your sweetness. Nuts and marshmallows mean you’re definitely not afraid to make things complicated. You went straight for the flavor that doesn’t play it safe.”

I bark out a laugh. “All that from an ice cream flavor?”

He nods. “Everything says something if you’re listening loud enough.”

“And what does salted caramel say about you?” I ask.

He purses his lips and nods. “It says I like depth. A little edge. I’m not out there chasing sprinkles and whipped cream because I want my satisfaction to come from the ice cream itself.”

“Please tell me you just made that up because . . .” I can’t stop laughing.

“That lame, huh?”

“More than.”

“You put me on the spot.” He reaches out his spoon and taps it against mine sitting on the counter. “Cheers.”

I stare at him as he opens the lid of his and takes his first bite in silence. I do the same, afraid of being caught staring for too long. Afraid of being charmed by a man who just toasted our spoons like it wasn’t a big deal at all. I welcome the reprieve to process my thoughts and try to figure out who exactly this irreverent woman is because she is nothing like me.

I’m straightforward. I’m black and white. I’ve . . . never sat in a dimly lit kitchen eating ice cream with my employer.

And I’ve never sat and wondered what his kiss tastes and feels like.

But I just did, and now my cheeks are flush and my body is keenly aware of him.

I shake my head to clear it. It’s just because of who he is when you’re used to stuffy accountants and strait-laced lawyers.

“I lied to you,” he says, breaking the silence.

My breath hitches, but I think I succeed in keeping the same expression.

“About?”

“I didn’t have plans tonight. I needed . . . a breather, a moment to process . . . I don’t fucking know, but I just needed to get some space.” He runs a hand through his hair. “From my own house. How fucked up is that?”

There’s a rawness to him. To his voice. An honesty I haven’t seen yet. He’s not the performer right now. Not the cocky guy on stage soaking up all the fans screaming his name.

Just Gavin Caldwell—unfiltered and fraying a little at the edges.

And he’s making an admission that most people wouldn’t to a woman they barely know.

I nod slowly and meet his eyes. “You had something major sprung on you.”