Page 3 of Beautiful Distraction

I take a sharp breath. Then another, my heart skippingbeats.

Wow.

He’s hot. And certainly not in an earthy, imperfect way.

He looks like a god.

His hair, dark and shiny, frames an attractive face with astraight nose, chiseled chin and the most stunning eyes I have ever seen. Theexpensive, light blue dress shirt can’t hide his broad shoulders or the factthat he’s probably sporting a six-pack beneath it. The sleeves are rolled up,revealing strong, tan arms and capable hands that don’t look like they’re stuckto a computer keyboard all day.

He works out…probablya lot.

He steps closer, and I can make out the color of his irises.In the dim light, his eyes shimmer in the dark crystal green shade of abeautiful, untouched lake.

Standing at six-foot-two, he oozes confidence and money.

And something else.

Sex.

The word invades my mind, and for a moment that’s all I canthink about.

Hot, steamy, wild, rough sex. The kind of sex that has yougripping at the sheets as wave after wave of orgasm rolls over you.

I’m not cheap, but I’m not a saint either. I appreciate ahot guy when I see one. And this one tops the charts. And judging from the longline of women glancing at him, like bees swarming around an exotic flower, Iknow I’m not the only one having those kind of thoughts.

But not even a hot guy can distract me from the situation athand.

I examine the damage to my car.

My car’s headlight is broken, while his car looks intact.

“There’s a scratch.” His voice is deep and low. His sexy accentsends a delicious tingle down my spine as I stare at my car in the knowledgeit’ll cost me way too much to get it repaired—money I don’t have.

“You call that a scratch? Can you—” I turn sharply toface him and stop midsentence, expecting him to be inspecting my car.

Instead, he’s leaning overhiscar. “You’re right. It’s more of a chip.” Hot Guy points to asmall nick, which I swear could just as well be a smudge of dirt, and trails afinger over it, his face drawn in worry. “This is going to be expensive.”

I scoff, feeling angry.

“You’re talking about a chip? Have you seen my car?”

He glances at it fleetingly before his eyes return to me.“That old thing? I’m surprised you can still drive it.”

My jaw drops as I’m rendered speechless.

My beloved Ford might have been previously owned, twice—atleast I hope the car dealer told me the truth—but it’s been with methrough more ups and downs than any human being in my life.

I feel strangely nostalgic toward my beloved Ford, and tearsbegin to sting the corners of my eyes.

Yes, it’s just a car and a battered one at that, but I can’tlet a guy get away with hurting the one thing that I worked my ass off savingup for—the most valuable thing I own, even though it probably costs lessthan his polished pair of dress shoes.

“Why are we talking about your car?” I ask. “You can hardlysee the damage.”

“Do you realize how much my Lamborghini’s worth?” Mr.Expensive Shirt says, raising a perfect brow, reading my thoughts.

I can’t believe it.

“Jerk!” I yell. “Arrogant prick. I don’t know how much yourdamn car’s worth, and I don’t care because it’syourfault.” I spit out the last two words, oblivious to the factthat I probably look like a madwoman the way I stab my finger into his chest.He doesn’t even seem to register it as his gaze travels down the front of mysnug top and tight jeans, which I threw on in haste.

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