Page 51 of Just a Distraction

But with Milo here, I want to watch him as he lights up in a grin when we talk about our favorite books. I want to laugh with him at some anecdote from his childhood. I want to breathe in his lightly spicy, woodsy cologne.

So I do. He tells me about growing up as the youngest Tate. He tells me about all the creative trouble he and his brothers got into, and about how he got into reading and writing because he was alone much of the time as he and his brothers got older.

I explain some of the ups and downs of my childhood and my mom’s revolving door of husbands and jobs.

And apparently, hours later, I want to kiss him. Because when Milo leans in, with a question in his eyes, I move to devour his mouth.

Chapter 21

Milo

Rose’s rosebud mouth is parted, the olives and golds of her eyes a sea of curiosity and openness. I look back down at her lips, knowing she wants what I want—hoping it’s the right time to finally meld my lips to hers again.

Except, Callum starts to cry, and she moves away with a soft gasp. Her gaze falls to her lap. “Just a second,” she whispers as she pulls herself off the couch. She drags a hand through her dark hair as she hurries out of the room and into the bedroom she shares with Callum.

She’s gone for several minutes, and through the open door, I hear her pacing the floor in her room, patting Callum’s back, whispering quietly.

Did I think I’d want kids at age twenty-five? Not really. But we’re

talking about Callum and Rose here. All bets about my life have been upended.

Eventually, Rose returns to the sofa, slowly sinking into it, her eyes half

closed.

“How is he?”

She covers a yawn with the back of her fist. “He fell back asleep.

Thankfully, no more vomiting.”

I nod. “And how are you?”

“Apparently, seeing my child throw up all over you had some sort of weird aphrodisiac effect because I almost kissed you.” She giggles, and I just breathe. Because the adrenaline from almost kissing her is revving up again.

My mind searches for a way to respond to that when she asks, “You okay?”

I chuckle as I drop my head back. “More than okay.” I lift my head and search her eyes. “How are you?” I ask again.

“I’m good.” Her voice is teasingly sweet, tired. “It’s . . . a good thing we didn’t actually kiss. I guess.” She runs her tongue across her lips.

“You guess?” I ask softly.

“I’m moving away.”

“In four months.”

The frisson between us is palpable as she scoots so that she has her back against the armrest of the sofa. She’s wearing worn jeans, and she stretches her legs out long but lets them dangle off the side of the couch. I pat my leg and make a pointed look at her feet.

She gives me a slow smile as she gently places her feet in my lap. I start massaging the arch of one, and touching her smooth, bare skin thrills me to the core.

“I’m warning you, I have terrible feet,” she says.

“No you don’t.”

“I have waitress and housekeeper feet. Even my callouses are calloused.”

“They’re not. Your feet are tired and worn out, which is all the more reason for me to take care of them.”

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