Page 11 of Just a Distraction

“I’m just saying in light of that and in light of me owing you for making your boss send you home early, my sense of duty is compelling me to ask you to walk down the street for some ice cream.”

My mind blips through the facts of my life as it stands—the trainwreck that it is. Blaine’s controlling behavior. Casa del Cibo and all it represents. My life being on the precipice—that somehow, I’m here, in this position, light-years away from where I thought I’d be at twenty-five years old. I don’t regret anything that brought Callum to me. But that doesn’t mean I should have to bear the stronghold that Blaine and his family have on me.

All of it is hitting the panic button in my mind.

I don’t want to go home. As much as I love a night to myself, reading science fiction and fantasy on my Turnip app, my favorite serial story sharing platform, it’s my birthday, and I’ve done nothing to celebrate. I suddenly feel energized.

Milo whispers a few notes of the Jeopardy theme song. “Duh, dum, duh da, duh dum dum…”

My sisterisbabysitting Callum. And I’m here, with red sauce staining my sleeve.

“Okay. Buy me some salted caramel STAT.”

Chapter 5

Milo

“I think we should break down what happened with our prank on Blaine tonight. Do sort of a play-by-play,” I say as Rose and I walk down the street to the ice-cream place. The night sky is clear, and I look up to find a couple of stars. It’s Denver, so the light pollution makes it hard to see stars most of the time, but I’m finding it’s a good idea to try to focus on the sky and not the gorgeous woman at my elbow.

“Play-by-play?” she says. “That reminds me. I don’t think we should eat ice cream together until we tell each other our NFL teams.”

“You’re changing your tune? You want to be that intimate, huh?” I punctuate the word “intimate,” letting my voice slide into a softer tone.

She gives me a light shove on the shoulder. “No. But I am walking down a street at night with a complete stranger. My normally copious amount of responsibility is screaming at me right now.”

“I’m not exactly a stranger. I’ve seen you at the restaurant before.”

“Guess what? I remember seeing you before, too.” She presses her lips together in a rosebud shape. Her hands are clasped lightly behind her as she walks. It’s the most natural thing in the world to be here with her. It’s as if we do this all the time.

“Well, then. We’re practically old friends. But still, that doesn’t mean we have to go for ice cream . . .”

“Said no one ever!” she says. “Except, you’re a stranger, and I’ve never gone for ice cream with a stranger before. So, when you think of it, asking about your NFL team is the least of my worries.”

I slow, turn to face her, and remove my hands from my pockets, holding up my palms in a peaceful gesture. “I understand. No pressure at all. But if you’d like to go, we’ll be in a well-lit, public place the whole time. You can text a family member or friend my name, number, and driver’s license.” I remove my wallet from my back pocket and hand her my license.

She takes it from me, scrunching up her eyes as she looks at it in the light of a streetlamp. A slight wave of surprise flicks over her face. It’s so brief I wonder if I imagine it. Not everyone cares that I’m a Tate.

After taking a quick photo of it and texting for a moment, she hands the card back to me. “I think you should know that I have that spray.” Her eyes challenge me. With a stare down like that, I bet she’s got plenty of people who are like putty in her hands.

“What spray?”

She clutches her phone. “You know? For self-defense!” She teases out a smile.

“Oh!” She opens her purse, muttering. “Also . . . where is it? I’ve got the spray and then the other thing. You know? A foghorn. My mom gave it to me a while back. A long while back, but still.” She paws through her purse and then stops to meet my gaze. “Do you think it expires?”

“What? The spray or the foghorn thing?”

She rolls her eyes. “Maybe both.”

“I honestly don’t know. But you’re welcome to use one or both of them at any

moment you feel the least bit threatened.”

She clicks her tongue, giving me a dubious look. “Have you ever been pepper -sprayed?”

“I feel like this is one of those layered questions.”

“Like, if you answer yes, I’ll know you’re quite possibly a serial killer?”

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