Page 1 of Just a Distraction

Chapter 1

Rose

The only thing worse than serving food at a restaurant on a busy Friday is worrying that your bra is going to fail you while you’re serving said food.

And by bra, I mean the whole thing. The nursing breast pads. The “cups runneth over” feeling. My white server’s blouse.

You see the issues I got going on, right?

So tonight, at Casa del Cibo, I hope the customers are too busy with their menus and velvety, cheesy Italian food to notice if things go south.

It’s weird that I actually work here. Sometimes, when I’m waitressing, my imagination convinces me that an alternate universe opened up and swapped my life for someone else’s. It’s a tiring, thankless job that I tried to avoid having.

I will admit it can have its perks, though. Like when the front of house staff seats a gorgeous, lovely man eating alone in the candlelight on table five.

I cannot ever date this gorgeous man, or any other, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy looking at him.

Olive skin. Thick, glossy dark hair. Impossibly dark eyes. A model’s chiseled jawline, yet just a hint of roundness in his cheeks. And, above all, a smile that jiggers my insides.

I’ve seen him here before, but I’ve never gotten lucky enough to be his waitress. He’s completely off-limits, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself a little.

Water? Tea? Me?

Ha!

On the opposite end of the restaurant, at the drink station just inside the kitchen, I laugh at my own little joke as I sneak a glance at him again.

With his warm-green wide-leg pants, Van’s sneakers, and cream-colored Henley, he’s the perfect counterpart to the rest of the crowd dining here. It was like the waitressing gods said, “Tonight’s going to be hard for Rose, all the way around. Let’s throw her a bone and give her the customer from heaven.”

I carry a big glass of ice water to him, feeling the all-too-familiar burning sensation in my breasts. My baby recently decided to wean himself. It’s only day two of the process, and I’m in a lot of pain. Nothing that my arm pressing tightly against my chest and aGeez Louiseunder my breath can’t fix.

I’ve done the cabbage leaf thing and had about ten cups of sage tea. It’ll start helping soon, right?

Yes, I’m a mother, and I regret nothing that brought me my lush, squishy, perfect little boy, Callum.

Hoping beyond hope that my breast pads are still holding up their end of the bargain, I set the man’s ice water in front of himand flash the brightest smile I can manage. The din from the restaurant behind us shrinks as his luminous eyes meet my own.

“Welcome to Casa del Cibo,” I say, the heavy burn in my chest subsiding enough to allow me to speak without gritting my teeth. “I’m Rose. How’s your evening going?”

He nods. “Never been better. Italian food’s my guilty pleasure.”

“That’s good to hear.” My gaze flicks over the dining room’s dim lighting, emerald-green vinyl booths, and landscapes of Italy on the walls. I shrug. “This place is not without its charm.”

I can see why people like Casa del Cibo. The food is good, and there’s sort of a friendly, back-to-yesteryear vibe in here. But for me, things became tainted when my boyfriend, Blaine Scano, the manager, dumped me right before the birth of our child. What’s the opposite of seeing things with rose-colored glasses? That’s how I view Casa del Cibo’s now. With a bitter taste fogging up my lenses.

To be clear, the food here doesn’t give you a bitter taste! Unless you’re talking about the mushroom risotto with sardines, but that’s a whole other story.

Jordo, the busboy, brings up the basket with warm, fresh bread and a dish of butter pats in gold foil and sets them down on the table near the guy’s glass.

“Thanks, man.” I catch him inhaling a little as he nods to Jordo. “This smells good.”

So beyond his killer looks, he’s kind to busboys. Nice.

Most customers don’t notice the busboys. Most customers barely notice me, their eyes blipping up from the menus only long enough to place their order.

Actually, I do get noticed, but not in the ways I want. There are the guys who notice me for all the wrong reasons. I hoped having a baby would change that—that somehow I’d have this stampon my forehead of “mother” and they’d back off and keep their distance.

But no, that’s not what happened. I’m objectively pretty, in a vaguely Sicilian- Eastern European-Mexican sort of way. I got good genes from my mom, I guess. And I’m not trying to brag, I’m really not. But becoming a mother didn’t seem to slow down the unwanted attention, even though I slip on a fake big-box store wedding ring when I’m working.

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