Page 13 of Beautiful Distraction

“Hey! We’re stuck out here and need help,” I yell, just incase my thudding is mistaken for an oncoming hurricane.

The few seconds that pass seem like an eternity. Eventually,a bolt slides. The door is pried open, and I find myself staring at thesix-foot-two figure of a guy.

My jaw drops open.

He seems oddly familiar.

His hair’s dark and curled at the tips; his strong jaw isshadowed, as though he forgot to shave this morning, the dark stubbleaccentuating his full lips. He’s wearing nothing but tight jeans with the upperbutton undone, but that’s not what makes it impossible to pry my eyes off ofhis half-clad body to meet his questioning gaze. It’s his familiar face, thegreen eyes that are now narrowed in surprise.

“You!” he states. His voice, deep and sexy, sends a shudderdown my spine. Something about his tone rings a bell. Where do I know thataccent from?

It takes me a few seconds before the penny drops.

My heart skids to a halt as I swear all heat is drainingfrom my body.

Holy. Pearls.

It can’t be. And yet, I know it’shim. Or someone who looks just like him: the rich guy with theexpensive car who offered me a handout in exchange for some implied fun betweenthe sheets. The one I brushed off.

What are the odds?

Even though he’s dressed more casually and his hair is a bitlonger—past the need for a cut, and styled in a casual mess that demandsyou run your fingers through it—I see the resemblance straight away. Mygaze brushes over his chest.

The same muscular build.

The same features and hard body, all shrouded in a layer ofmystery, that have been haunting my dreams ever since he bumped his Lamborghiniinto my Ford and then offered me a shitload of money because he felt sorry forme.

Club 69.

That’s where we met three months ago.

And that certainly explains his palpable disdain for me.

He can’t takerejection.

For the first two weeks, I couldn’t get him out of my mind.I even started skipping through the gossip pages of various magazines in casehe might be someone rich and famous.

Needless to say, I didn’t find his picture, so I forcedmyself to push him out of my system—Mandy made that part almostimpossible.

Of all the places in the world, I had to meet himhere—in the middle of nowhere, with no escape route.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I stare at him, my body frozen in shock. I’m so stunned, fora moment I’m rendered speechless as we continue to eye each other.

Meeting him here, in the middle of nowhere, feels surreal.

His chest—all hard muscles—is clearly definedand emphasized by the light bulb dangling over my head. A black snake tattooadorns his left arm, which is stretched against the doorframe, as though toblock my way, while the other is clutching at the door, as though ready to slamit in my face. I look up into eyes the color of storms and realize that’sexactly what he’s considering doing.

“This is private property. You’re trespassing.” His voice israw and gritty, with a strong accent. No ‘How can I help you?’; no ‘Please comein.’; not even ‘Hi, how are you? Hey, I remember you. You look great, by theway.’

I stare at him, dumbfounded, until I remember that Mr.Expensive Shirt has no manners.

He demonstrated it before, and he’s doing it again. My handsball into fists, and for a split second, I consider turning around and headingelsewhere. If only he weren’t the only person around. I can’t afford to offendhim. Not when he’s the only person who can help us.

I grit my teeth and force myself to take slow, measuredbreaths.

“I need help,” I whisper, my voice slightly hoarse.

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