Distraction: Friction, #2

By Emily Snow

A sexy attorney with a penchant for naughty games. A woman ready to settle down. And one filthy guarantee…

At twenty-eight, Jamie Armstrong is sick of men like the one who propositioned her on the first date. She wants commitment, and she's got a list she's anxious to check off. Love. Marriage. Baby. Then she meets Mateo Bailon, and he rocks her world with a promise spoken in the sexiest accent she's ever heard.

"Una Noche. Una noche y te garantizo que te puedo eseñar una o quizás dos cosas."

One night. One night, and I guarantee I can teach you a thing or two.

Gorgeous and arrogant, Mateo isn't looking for commitment and he sure as hell doesn't want marriage. He wants a distraction—a new way to forget his past—and Jamie's his favorite kind.

But what happens when one night isn't enough?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Snow
• Release date: Dec 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386569534

Emily Snow

Emily Snow is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of the erotic romance series Devoured, which includes Devoured, All Over You, and Consumed, as well as the new adult novel Tidal. She loves books, sexy bad boys, and really loud rock music, so naturally, she writes stories about all three. She lives in Virginia. Visit her online at EmilySnowBooks.blogspot.com, and follow her on Twitter @EmilySnowBks.

Book preview

Distraction

Emily Snow

Copyright © 2017 by Emily Snow

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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1

Jamie

Why can’t Lucy handle her own mess? I need you. Desperately, my sister complains after I accidentally accept her call. I slam on the brakes to avoid bumping into the car in front of me. Thankfully, traffic in downtown Boston is slow since at 1:57, it’s just past the lunch rush and a few hours before the end of the regular work day. Still, the second-to-last thing I need is a fender bender.

The last thing?

To deal with my twin sister’s shit.

Bella’s I-Have-An-Emergency text had stopped me in my tracks when she sent it shortly before I left my apartment, but after some back and forth, I discovered her situation was nowhere near as desperate as she’s making it out to be. Jamie? Bella moans, adopting that whispery whine that’s launched a thousand and one migraines. "What do I do about it?"

"It is a baby. You know, a person, I respond calmly, flicking on my turn signal. I wait until the traffic light changes to green then pull into the parking garage. Driving slowly until I reach the third level, I dart my gaze around the rows of vehicles in search of Lucy’s car. I swear there’s not much to watching a child."

But I’ve never babysat before.

Then why on earth did you agree to do it? I spot my best friend’s Jeep in the section reserved for employees of Aldrich, Bailon and Gallagher LLP. Saying a silent prayer that I won’t come out to find my Civic towed, I park between Lucy’s car and a glossy black BMW M4. Look, Bella, he hasn’t even dropped the baby off yet. Go out and buy some outlet covers. Hide all your sharp objects. I promise I’ll stop by on my way to work.

"Meanwhile, you’re going to a meeting with Lucy because she can’t deal with her own problems. I love how you’ll probably spend all your time with her and then have zero time for me. Real nice, Twin B."

I almost point out how Bella stood me up last week to go out with a friend she sees every day, but I grit my teeth into a smile. Constantly reminding me you’re two minutes older isn’t going to get me there any sooner. This thing with Luce—it’s different. Inclining my head toward my friend in the car beside mine, I meet wide, terrified hazel eyes.

Guilt clogs my throat.

If it weren’t for me, Lucy wouldn’t be in this mess. I’d inadvertently unleashed FuckGate just a couple of weeks ago when I told her to send me a photo from a kinky party she was attending with her boss—the owner of a company that specializes in metal … toys. The kind of playthings that go buzz in the night. I wasn’t serious when I made the request, and I never thought she’d follow through, but then the photo showed up. On my feed and every other person who was following her on Snapchat. Because the owner of the house was not only front and center in the photo but also a prominent attorney, Lucy had lost everything. Her job. Her new relationship with her boss, Jace. Possibly her potential for a new job. Every-thing.

So if she needs me with her to do damage control—to keep King Swing-A-Ling from suing the dick off her former boss and burying his company—I’m right there.

Just like I’ll be there for Bella and her reluctant adventures in babysitting … as soon as I’m finished here. I tell my sister this. She snaps that I better not forget about her, and I swear I hear her brown eyes rolling dramatically through the phone. Then she hangs up on me.

Because that’s Bella. A damn drama queen. All day. Every day.

Lucy raps her knuckles lightly on my window. Turning off my car, I join her outside and stuff my phone and keys into the front pocket of my top. In her slim black pants and the low black ponytail she’s paired with bold red lipstick, she looks all business—until she shifts her weight between her feet and fiddles anxiously with the cuff of her fitted black blazer. I plant my hands on her thin shoulders before she can start hyperventilating.

It’s going to be all right. She releases a shuddering sigh, so I give her shoulders a firm pump. "I promise it’s going to be fine."

You’re right. She exhales a harsh whoosh of air and anxiously drags her fingers through the long strands of her ponytail. All I have to do is get Bailon to hear me out. I can do this.

Yes, you can. Though Bailon’s name does send a pulse down my spine. Before Lucy’s photo went viral, neither of us knew his real name, but with his exotic good looks—olive skin, bedroom eyes that are a shade caught somewhere between chocolate brown and amber, and short-cropped raven hair—it fits him to a T.

Mateo Bailon.

Even if his bare, sculpted chest and lounge pant bulge weren’t everywhere, it’s not a name I could simply forget.

Mateo-Goddamn-Sex-Party-Hosting-Bailon.

Shoving the image of him fondling another woman’s breast from my mind, I make it my mission to put Lucy at ease. On the elevator ride up, I lure her attention to my Hello Kitty scrubs. She teases me for wearing them, but I remind her that I’m going to work soon after leaving this appointment—after I make a pit stop at Bella’s. While we sit waiting impatiently for the leggy redheaded receptionist to confirm Bailon wants to speak with us, I distract Lucy even further by telling her about my sister.

But Bella hates babies. Lucy’s ruby-painted lips twitch, and I can’t tell if she wants to smile or cry. "Did the guy tell her he had a kid before they started dating?"

Who the hell knows. I had asked myself the same question after Bella sent her S.O.S. text. It’s common knowledge that I’m the Armstrong twin who wants kids, so for my sister to date a man with a child means one thing: She’s crazy about him. I swear if Bells ends up with a baby before me, I’m quitting life and becoming a hermit. I don’t care if she gets married but a baby, Luce?

She squeezes my knee, and I cover her hand with my own because her fingers are trembling. If you become a hermit, who’ll peer pressure me into drinking tequila?

True. The laughter that escapes my lips sounds forced. Absolutely true. I lean forward for one of the magazines on the coffee table but pause when the receptionist rounds the corner. Tall and stunning, Sonora reminds me of someone I’d see in an Agent Provocateur ad—not in a law office—but I suppose she’s the boss man’s type. Lucy says she’s a frequent guest at Bailon’s naughty parties, but I try not to imagine him feeling Sonora up like the woman in the photo as she announces he’s ready for us. Because the sympathetic look she casts our way tells me he’s about to destroy my best friend.

And I’ll be damned if I let that happen.

Bailon’s office is what I imagined it would be—barrister bookshelves line the walls on either side and an executive desk sits in the center of the setup—but the man behind it is nothing like any attorney I’ve ever met. He’s studying a document splayed across the surface of his desk, but when Lucy’s pump clicks against the floor, the muscles in his shoulders tighten, and he glances up, a smirk already twisting the corners of his full lips.

His dark gaze sweeps over us, briefly pausing on Lucy before it pings back to me. Surprise registers on his face—slightly parted lips and arched eyebrows—but then he relaxes his features. I offer him a smile that’s detached, professional, despite the knots twisting and turning in the pit of my stomach.

I’m here for Lucy, I remind myself. Not to be affected by Mateo Bailon and the bulge that banged the internet.

Lucy hesitates several feet from the two chairs in front of his desk, but I give her an encouraging nod. Lifting her chin, she nods and approaches him. I start to breathe a sigh of relief. Of course, Bailon screws her rush of confidence with a withering stare and a command—to take a seat.

This is when the verbal vomit starts.

She’s in the middle of rehashing the events that brought us into his office when his focus shifts. It’s subtle, a readjustment of his slim red tie and a lowering of his eyelids. But when his eyes part, I become the object of his concentration.

My pulse stutters.

While I’m sure Lucy hasn’t a clue he’s stopped listening—she’s explaining why her ex-husband retaliated by sharing the photograph—I am fully aware. This isn’t the fleeting glance he gave me the one other time we were in the same space, but a slow perusal. The kind that would shatter any woman’s confidence. Mateo Bailon has the power to steal the room with a single gaze, and he has chosen today, when I’m dressed in scrubs with not an ounce of makeup on, to look at me.

Faltering, I move my face to the side. I look at my friend because his eyes should be on her, but I continue to feel his stare. It’s overwhelming, a flame against my skin. I scoot to the edge of my seat, one hand gripping my armrest and the other on Lucy’s, until finally—finally—the heat begins to fade.

For a long pause, I sit back and half-listen to their tense exchange, but the moment the word lawsuit leaves his mouth, my spine straightens. I’ve got to say something. There’s no way I can be the silent emotional support, not while he’s scaring the hell out of her.

I asked her to send the picture. Once again, I become the sole recipient of Bailon’s focus. I’m Jamie, by the way. Jamie Armstrong.

He mouths my name, then presses his lips in a thin line. He’s good at this—the intimidation game—but some of the doctors I’ve dealt with at work are dicks. I’m ready for Bailon. At least, that’s what I’ll tell myself.

I wanted to know what happens at your parties, I say, my voice shuddering slightly as I watch his mouth work around the syllables of my name for the second time. So, I begged her to send it to me. She thought she was sending it privately and you’ve already heard what happened after that. She made a mistake, but her ex-husband is an asshole.

If you wanted to know what happens at my parties, you could have attended yourself. He rakes straight white teeth over the corner of his bottom lip. My mouth goes bone-dry, like I haven’t had a drink in weeks, months, years. I gulp, clear my throat, just to regain some measure of confidence.

I wasn’t invited, Mr. Bailon. My voice is under control, but my hands shake, and my heart is just as unsteady. It bangs against my ribcage, a fierce drumbeat I’m thankful he’s not aware of. Men like Mateo Bailon—they thrive on digging beneath the skin. Why the hell else would he be an attorney? Linking my fingers together on my lap, I give him the same smile I gave touch-happy patients when I worked as an ER nurse.

I’m not sure it would be my scene, though, I inform him.

"Mírate. He shifts back in his leather seat and gives me a pointed look that sears right through me. Estás asustada de que te pueda gustar."

It’s another invitation. This time, though, he’s teasing me. He wants me to admit defeat, to ask him what he just said. The thing is, I already know, and his words knock me further off my axis.

Look at you. You’re scared you might like it.

"Para nada. His jaw goes slack. Responding to him—offering a piece of myself—is a mistake, but the damage is already done. I tug at the neckline of my scrub top and shrug. Lourdes, my neighbor growing up, was from Puerto Rico. I learned a thing or two."

I can see that. He regards me for a moment longer, challenging me, demanding more. When I don’t say another word nor look away, those beautiful lips of his curve upward. Have it your way, he says.

Wrenching his gaze from mine, he promises Lucy he’ll think about what she’s said. Then he gives us each his card and tells us to leave—rudely. Go fucking figure.

We’re almost in the clear and out of his office, but then he speaks up. And again, it’s in Spanish. "Una noche. Una noche y te garantizo que te puedo enseñar una o quizás dos cosas."

Freezing just a step from the doorway, I close my eyes and drag in a deep breath, heat caressing my body as I silently repeat his words. One night. One night, and I guarantee I can teach you a thing or two also.

I’m grateful. Grateful that my back is to him. Grateful that Lucy and I are leaving. Grateful that I’ll probably never see Mateo Bailon again after today.

If you say so. I refuse to turn around, but I hear his chuckle—rich and thick and sexy—trailing behind us.

You have my card, Ms. Armstrong. Use it.

So, I do. By leaving it in the small, stainless steel trash can by his receptionist’s desk.

* * *

Bella’s apartment is in the Kenmore part of town—twenty minutes in the other direction of the hospital and my apartment in Brighton—but I make it a point to keep the promise I made my twin. I’ve had plenty of time to calm myself after the meeting with Bailon, after he ripped my nerves to pieces with a flick of his tongue and a stare that will haunt me for the rest of the evening, but my fingers tingle as I push my sister’s doorbell.

She answers on the second buzz, flinging the door open to face me with one hand on a curvy hip and her eyebrows pinched together. Other than a few slight differences—I have a tiny beauty mark above my upper lip and a nicer ass while she has an inch height advantage and a rounder face—she’s my mirror image. We have the same bronze complexion and dark brown eyes. The same petite, hourglass figure. The same cupid’s bow lips, though hers are in a firm line that stems from having to wait for me.

So, she starts, did Lucy get her shit straightened out and her job back?

For someone who bitched and moaned about me going in the first place, you’re a nosy one. I breeze past her, laying my car keys and phone on the center shelf of the ladder bookcase in the entryway. I can’t stay long. My shift starts in forty minutes.

She shrugs. I only need you for ten. The baby’s already here.

He is? The excitement in my voice is tell-tale, and my sister simpers as she motions for me to follow her to the other room. As I step over the safety gate she must have picked up just this afternoon, I zero in on the toddler grasping Bella’s circular coffee table. Dressed in footie pajamas and rocking out to some kid-friendly TV show, he’s around eighteen months old and adorable—all pudgy cheeks, wide brown eyes, and a grin that’s contagious. After having my thoughts engaged by a smile that’s likely slayed half the panties in Boston, the innocence is refreshing.

I inch closer to the baby, kneeling beside him on the floor. Hey there, little guy! He peeks up at me from beneath long lashes and giggles, causing a familiar pressure to give my ribcage a brutal tug. I’ve always known I wanted a family—a husband, kids, the whole picket fence situation my sister scoffs at because she says nobody has a white picket fence in Boston. But it wasn’t until after my former fiancé, Art, started blowing up his Instagram feed with photos of his new baby that the need for more became more right now.

You’re going to burn a hole into his face if you keep staring at him like that, Bella points out.

Warmth spreads across my features as I hoist myself onto the couch, next to the diaper bag sitting against the armrest. I clear my throat. What’s his name?

My sister takes the other side of the couch and tucks her legs beneath her. She watches the baby for a moment, her expression unreadable as he howls along with the floppy dog dancing on screen. I’m starting to think she has no damn clue what his name is, but then she turns to me. Isaac.

Isaac, I repeat. What a perfect name for such a sweet baby.

You know this after three minutes? She lets out an impressed whistle. Damn, Twin B, you’re good.

That’s why you called me. Still, I give Bella a common-sense refresher on taking care of a small child. When I’m done, her posture is rigid. You’ll do fine. How long are you watching him?

Until eight. Leo’s teaching a GED prep course and his sitter fell through. And I’m sure we will be okay—this is just my first time watching him by myself. When I take in a breath to prepare to speak, she answers my next question for me. Isaac’s mom walked out on them a few months after he was born. Told Leo she needed time.

And is he still giving her time? Her shoulder-length brown hair flies around her face as she swivels her head in my direction to glower at me. I hold my hands up defensively, facing my palms toward my twin. You’re my sister. I only asked because I love you.

"No, he’s not still giving her time, she bites out. Their divorce finalized last summer—a couple months before he started dating me."

Which puts their relationship at five or six months and this is the first I’ve heard of it. Why the hell am I’m not surprised? Bella’s always been secretive about relationships, but it stings she doesn’t confide in me until she needs me. I plaster on a bright smile when I stand.

So … what happened with Lucy? she asks as I squat down next to the coffee table to tell Isaac goodbye. He gives me a high-five, and I respond in a sing-song voice that raise my sister’s eyebrows. Did you get everything fixed?

No, I say too quickly, standing. Suddenly, my brain takes a dive from maternal to Mateo. Stepping over the baby gate, I pinch my eyes shut, hoping it will scrub the memory of him from my brain, but it doesn’t help. He’s there, dark eyes dancing in amusement, smirk teasing me. And his words…

A pulse of electricity weaves its way down my spine because his words are unforgettable. Opening my eyes, I swallow hard when I notice that Bella has gotten up and is now staring right back at me from the other side of the gate. She wrinkles her nose. Who’d you say you were meeting with again?

The guy from that picture that was everywhere.

Oh. The lawyer? Her lips curl into a grin, and I have a feeling she’s mentally envisioning Bailon in the lounge pants that left nothing to the imagination. The guy was blessed. "Nice. So how did that go?"

I’m going to be late, but I’ll call you later. I grab my phone and keys from the table then nod toward her living room. Isaac’s got your remote. You might want to put it up somewhere high so he doesn’t put the batteries in his mouth.

I hear her scrambling behind me to remove the remote from his possession, and then she breathlessly says, "I know you, Jamie. He must have said something good for you to make that face."

Walking over the threshold and onto the front stoop, I turn and the sight of the baby on my sister’s hip makes my ribs squeeze tight. She looks so much like me, and he’s the embodiment of what I desire, that it takes me a moment to recover. Ripping my focus up to my sister’s dark eyes, I slide my hands into my front pockets and give her a secretive smile.

"Una noche, I reveal because the only Spanish Bella knows is cerveza, por favor" so she can order drinks at restaurants. "Una noche y te garantizo que te puedo enseñar una o quizás dos cosas."

What the fu— Catching herself before she teaches the baby a fun new word, she cringes and glances down at him before flicking her gaze to mine. Confusion and frustration is clear on her face as she shakes her head. What does that even mean? she hisses.

That he’s trouble. I’ll call later to check in on you.

2

Mateo

I can’t remember the last time I was disappointed to see a woman leave.

They come and then they go, and usually—fuck that, always—I’m ready for that to happen. For the last fifteen years, it’s how I’ve operated. I never promise anything more than a good time and a good orgasm. Some are a part of my life longer than others, but they all know better than to expect more. This one, though—this one is already an enigma.

Jamie Armstrong.

She had demanded my attention from the moment she walked through the door. She’s petite, no more than five-three with golden skin that flushed under my gaze. I didn’t want to stare at her like a man starved, but everything about her made it impossible not to look. Her dark curls seemed to beg for my fingers to wind through them and her lush curves—hidden beneath those childish scrubs—were like kryptonite to my under-fucked body.

I’d seen her in passing over a month ago, at Jace Exley’s shop when he was still working on the table that might tank my career. She was wearing scrubs then, too: festive pink and red hearts that were just as ridiculous as what she strutted into my office wearing this afternoon. She was different that day, though. She had looked twice. She’d roamed her brown eyes over me, the corners crinkling and her pink lips squeezing together. Her expression wasn’t like her friend’s— Lucy stares at me with wary, judgmental eyes whenever we talk, and it makes me dislike her even more.

That afternoon at Exley’s workshop, Jamie’s face was a sexy mixture of appreciation and undisguised curiosity. It was an expression that had made my pants tighten because she got my dick rock hard.

When I saw her today, after I got over the surprise and irritation that Lucy Williams needed her friend to hold her hand while she stuttered and blushed through an apology for fucking me over, I expected the same appreciation. The curiosity. Instead, Jamie surprised me not once or twice but three times. She greeted me with a forced smile, then focused