Distracted

By Belinda Wright

Luna Perry is absolutely not looking for romance when she bumps into business consultant Brent Costner at the airport, certainly not with an arrogant corporate banker sort of guy. He's so much the opposite of her type that she lies to him and tells him she's a yoga teacher to emphasise just how different they are. She used to teach yoga anyway, he doesn't need to know she's a developer at a clothing company, it's not like she's ever going to see him again.

Brent's not in the market for distraction either. He's on a mission to make his consultancy the most successful ever. It's been his goal for as long as he can remember. He's in the UK to lead the European branch of a clothing company through a structural reorganisation and manage the inevitable redundancies, and he's not about to lose focus. But after meeting Luna at the airport he can't get her out of his mind. He's drawn to her easy-going, free-spirited way. She's different from most girls and he can't help but feel intrigued. Would a small distraction really matter? Surely, he can allow himself a little fun, as long as he doesn't take his eye off the ball for too long…      

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belinda Wright
• Release date: Jul 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223132530

Belinda Wright

Thank you for reading. I'm a mum of two girls and a lover of books; both reading and writing them. I hope you love my books as much as I do. Belinda x

Book preview

Distracted

Chapter One

A collective groan came from the waiting passengers as ‘DELAYED’ flashed on the screen. I closed my eyes. Another forty-five minutes. Really? So close to home but still so far. I opened my eyes and ran a hand through my hair, my fingers snagging; humid air didn’t help with curls. Neither did a long flight from Delhi. I rubbed my cold, swollen eyes. The mascara applied that morning had long since melted away.

I spotted a bar opposite the gate, so heaved my straw bag on to my shoulder and headed over. The bag strap had been threatening to break since the bus journey in Delhi, but thankfully was still holding on. I put my hand under it just in case as I crossed the concourse. I should have put the samples in my suitcase instead of lugging them in my hand luggage.

Two men in suits wheeling trolley cases whizzed past in front of me, followed by a lady in a red dress. I stopped to let them pass, looking down at my own clothes. This morning in Delhi my vest top and cropped trousers had looked the height of chic but now, Sunday evening at Schiphol, I looked like a tourist returning from a beach holiday.

My eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the bar. I dumped my bag on the floor, climbed on to the high stool and waited. The barman came over and gave me a cheerful smile. I struggled to smile back, taking in his formal uniform of a green apron and a bow tie.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Green tea, please.’ He moved away to prepare it and I closed my eyes, realising how tired I was. It had been a long two weeks in India and all I could think about was getting home to my flat. My haven. My place of calm and happiness. I loved my flat. I’d been so lucky to find it. It hadn’t even been advertised when I went into the letting agency looking for somewhere to rent two years ago and they had given me a first viewing. That was a turning point in my life, when things began to improve. Before that there had been a moment when I thought things couldn’t get much worse.

I had been so settled, so happy. My life in Sri Lanka with Dan was perfect. Idyllic even. We lived in a cute little hut a hundred metres from a beach of the finest white sand imaginable that stretched for miles and was edged by palm trees. The sea was blue, but not normal sea blue; it was aqua blue, kind of like the colour of mouthwash. The water wasn’t deep and when I stood still rainbow fish would swim around my legs. It was the stuff of travel brochures. I was in heaven.

Dan was the head cocktail waiter in the Ramones Hotel bar, close to where we lived. He could walk to and from work in minutes, which was great because he worked all night. He would get home just as I was getting up each day. We would eat breakfast together on the beach watching the sun rise in the sky. Then I would take the scooter to the clothing factory where I was head of production, a job I loved. I worked with the pattern-makers to ensure the clothes were produced to the customers’ specs.

Until everything changed. It was a Thursday; I remember it vividly. I took my lunch break as I often did in a small café near the beach. I sat in the shade because the midday sun was fierce. I ordered coconut water and fresh fish and I called my mum. I was excited to hear her voice because I hadn’t called for a while. As soon as Mum answered I knew something was wrong because the tone of her voice was off. Dad had just got the results of some scans, she told me. I was surprised; I didn’t know he’d even been for a scan. He had been diagnosed with cancer, she said. Bowel cancer. They needed to do further tests, but it didn’t look good. The oncologist suspected it was stage four, and there was a shadow on his liver too. He was feeling quite poorly, Mum said, and I knew then it must be bad, because my parents rarely complained. She was trying to be strong, but I could tell she was on the verge of crying.

I hung up the phone with my own tears forming in my eyes. I went back to the factory, told the owner I was leaving for England and took my moped and drove as fast as I could back to the beach hut. I wanted to see Dan. I needed him to hold me and tell me it would be OK. He would come with me back to England, I knew it; there was no way he would let me face this alone.

I locked the moped outside the complex and hurried to our hut. It was the afternoon and Dan didn’t start his shift until the evening so I hoped he’d be home. As I neared the hut I heard music playing. He was home and awake, I thought with relief as I let myself in. I dropped my bag by the front door. I hurried to find him, desperate to tell him the bad news.

I saw her before I saw him. Long straight dark hair fell down her back in a glossy cloak. I remember thinking it must have taken a long time to grow hair that long. Her olive skin was sun-kissed, smooth. Her back was completely tan-line free, I noticed. She sat up and turned to look at me, her almond-shaped eyes filled with confusion. Then I saw him beneath her, his arms folded behind his head, his eyes were half shut. He was smiling that relaxed, lazy smile that I used to find so cute. Bob Marley was playing, and he was nodding his head to the music. He saw me and the smile vanished.

‘What are you doing back so early?’ He pulled the sheets over his chest. The girl slipped off him and lay on the bed, her naked breasts bouncing as she moved. I just watched, struggling to take my eyes off her, refusing to believe she was in my bed.

‘Lue? I can explain,’ Dan said, sitting up. I swallowed, feeling sick. What happened next, I don’t remember so well. I think I just grabbed some of my things, my passport and other stuff, threw some clothes into a bag and ran out. I don’t think I said anything. I took the moped to the airport and locked it outside. Then I went in and got on the first flight to London.

I haven’t spoken to Dan since. He tried emailing and calling but I never picked up. I didn’t want to hear his excuses. There are no excuses. I had caught him in the act. How could he possibly explain that one away? I didn’t give him that chance. Anyway, I’d been too busy. I had to help my mum. I found a job in clothing development in Reading and I moved into my lovely flat not far from their house.

Dad died only three months after I got back. The time passed in a blur. I helped my mum care for him; I focused on them. It was a heartbreaking time but it stopped me thinking about my already broken heart. It took my mind off Dan and the perfect life in Sri Lanka I had left behind.

After he died I threw myself into my new job. It was great. I could go there and focus on nothing but work, forgetting all the other sad things going on. It was like therapy; I even got to travel to India and Turkey for short factory visits. I got to work with fabrics and textiles, something I loved doing, and the rest of the time I could stay close to Mum.

Those two years had passed so fast. I looked at my watch, which was still set to Delhi time, I noticed. I tried to calculate how long I’d been travelling. It must have been over fifteen hours since I left the hotel and there was still the Schiphol to Heathrow leg to get through. I closed my eyes again. At least a car would be waiting for me at Heathrow and I wouldn’t have to worry about finding a taxi.

The barman placed a pot of tea in front of me and my eyes flicked open. I poured it into the cup, took a sip and winced. It was nothing like the green tea I’d been drinking for the past two weeks in India. I took a deep breath and tried to centre myself.

Only forty-five minutes delay – not so long really. I could do this. I looked back at the gate. Most of the people had moved away. I squinted to try to see the screen but couldn’t make out what was showing. There was a table by the window in the bar so I decided to move there so I could see the screen more easily.

I picked up my tea, grabbed my bag and headed towards the window. I’d made it halfway when the straw strap gave way. It sprang out of my hand, the weight of the bag pulling it to the ground. The sudden lightness of my hand propelled me backwards, flicking my arm upwards. The teacup bounced off the saucer and fell to the ground. I looked in horror as the tea sprayed out of the cup as it dropped. The cup landed on the floor at the feet of a man who had just walked in to the bar. Tea spattered the bottom of his suit trouser leg.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped, grabbing a napkin from the table and dropping down to wipe his trousers.

‘It’s OK,’ he said with an American accent, pulling away and grimacing. ‘I’ll do it.’ He took the napkin out of my hand and began wiping his shoe. I watched him, feeling guilty.

‘It’s only green tea,’ I said, as he moved on to wipe his trouser leg. ‘Hopefully it shouldn’t stain too much.’ He looked at me, irritation flashing in his eyes and I swallowed, wishing I could vanish. He bent down and continued wiping before standing up and smoothing his wavy hair that was held in place with what looked like rather a lot of hair gel. He looked like a young James Bond, the Pierce Brosnan one, I decided, but with more hair gel and an American accent. ‘It’s OK, forget about it,’ he said and gave me a forced smile then bent down and continued wiping his trousers.

I started picking up the contents of my bag, glad to be facing the floor. Young James Bond picked up the clear bag containing my hand cream, moisturiser and perfume that was by his foot and handed it to me.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered, taking the bag. ‘It’s OK, I can do it,’ I said and picked up my wallet and passport. He ignored me and gathered up my sunglasses and hairbrush and handed them to me. I took them and dropped them into the bag.

‘Interesting tattoo.’ He pointed at my right wrist.

‘It’s fire,’ I said.

‘Fire?’

‘Yes, fire – and water.’ I showed him my left wrist with its tattoo of a water drop. ‘To keep me balanced. Look – earth and air.’ I showed the two other symbols tattooed on each ankle.

‘To keep you balanced?’ he repeated, a smirk appearing on his mouth. ‘Does it work?’

‘Actually, yes,’ I said, irritated. A smile crept on to his face and he looked like he was about to laugh. His forehead creased into straight lines as his eyebrows raised. What a twat, I thought, wondering how much gel he used on his hair to keep it so neatly back like that.

‘What keeps you balanced, then?’ I challenged him. I hate people laughing at me.

‘Whiskey,’ he said with a nod. Then he waved to the barman. ‘Can I get a whiskey – bourbon and ...’ Young James Bond looked at me. ‘Could I offer you another cup of tea?’ He said ‘cup of tea’ in a fake British accent. I felt my skin prickle with annoyance.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t have time. My flight will be boarding soon.’

‘Heathrow?’

I nodded.

‘You’ve got time. It’s been pushed out another two hours.’

‘What? You’re joking.’ I moved to the door to check the screen. ‘DELAYED 2 HOURS’ flashed up beside the departure time. I groaned.

‘So?’ he said when I came back. He was leaning against the bar, but he was still a head taller than me. I felt short in my flat sandals. Why hadn’t I worn high heels? That would have put me closer to his eye level. I felt like he had the upper hand. His tie was loosened and the collar of his white shirt was undone.

‘Do you want that drink?’

‘I guess so, if you’re buying.’

‘Sure, to thank you for giving me an excuse to get my suit dry cleaned again.’ He grinned; his teeth were beautiful, white and straight. Why do Americans always have perfect teeth?

‘I said sorry about the tea. It was an accident,’ I muttered.

‘It was a joke. Where are you sitting?’ he asked, his accent making the words merge into each other.

‘I was going over there to watch the screen. But I guess we can stay here,’ I said, moving back to the bar. I didn’t want to get stuck at a table with this guy. The barman put the whiskey down in front of him and he picked up the glass. I wondered how old he was. Older than me, for sure, but not quite forty. Somewhere between thirty-five and forty, I decided.

‘I’m gonna order a shot as well. Would you like one?’

‘A shot?’

He shrugged and nodded. ‘It’s been a long flight, a long day and, well, now it’ll be a long wait. You want one?’

I bit my lip. ‘Sure, why not.’

He waved to the barman and ordered two shots of Jäger. In a moment they were placed in front of us. He picked up his and slid the other in my direction. I took the glass and held it up. He tapped his to mine and said, ‘Cheers.’ He downed his. I took a sip, wincing as the sweet liquor burned my mouth. I hadn’t drunk alcohol since before the two weeks in India.

‘Are you on a long-haul connection too?’

‘Is it that obvious?’ I rubbed my eyes, hoping there were no remains of melted mascara beneath them. ‘I’ve come from Delhi. And yeah, it’s been long. I guess I’m pretty exhausted if I’m honest.’

‘Glad you’re being honest.’ He smirked.

I frowned; was he making fun of me again? ‘What about you?’ I asked.

‘Oregon. And what was it you wanted to drink? Another tea?’

I looked at his whiskey and shrugged. ‘White wine, please.’

‘Can I get a glass of white wine? Something good,’ he said to the barman. Then he took off his suit jacket and hung it over the handle of his trolley case. The white shirt underneath was pristine. How had he managed to keep it so clean and fresh after a long flight? I wondered.

‘How long will you be in London for?’ I asked, trying not to look at the contours of his muscular body that were visible through his shirt.

‘Three weeks. I have business in Reading, a town outside London.’

‘Reading? That’s where I live!’

‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting. ‘It must be fate.’ My stomach tightened. He didn’t really think so, did he? I sipped the cold wine the barman had put in front of me and turned my head slightly to study him from my peripheral vision. His skin was tanned, his eyes were brown and his jaw sharp; that gelled-back dark hair giving him the look of a banker.

‘What were you doing in Delhi? Vacation?’ he asked.

‘Actually working,’ I said, moving my hand to my hair to try to smooth the curls. Did he think he was the only one with a job?

‘My name’s Brent, by the way,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘Luna,’ I said, shaking his hand. He gripped mine tightly.

‘Fire?’ he muttered, catching sight of the inside of my wrist again. I pulled my arm back. ‘Does it really work?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Does it keep you balanced?’

‘Yes! Yes, it does work. That and yoga.’

‘Yoga?’ He laughed. ‘Of course you’re into that. You look like a yoga person.’

‘Yes. I am into yoga. Yes, I’m a yoga person,’ I said. ‘It’s my life. I do it all the time. I teach it too. I started when I lived in Sri Lanka.’ This guy was making me mad.

‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ I exclaimed, glaring at him. ‘What sport do you do then? No wait, don’t tell me, let me guess.’ I looked him up and down, taking in his muscles visible through his white shirt. ‘I bet you pump iron in the gym.’ He shook his head.

‘OK. I bet you’re into cross fit, that’s really on trend right now.’

‘Nope.’ He smiled. I swallowed and narrowed my eyes.

‘A competitive game of squash during your high-powered lunch break?’ I tried. He laughed and shook his head. ‘I rarely go to the gym. I can play squash but don’t play much. Never did cross fit. Guess again.’

‘OK, spinning? That disco cycling like the Beckhams do.’

He shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’

‘Tennis?’

‘Nope.’

‘Running?’

‘Nope.’

‘What then?’

‘You give up?’

‘Yes, I give up.’

‘I’m a dancer.’

‘A dancer?’ I repeated, looking at him, wondering if he was lying. He looked nothing like a dancer in his James Bond suit with his gelled-back hair. He nodded.

‘You’re a dancer? What sort of dancing?’

‘Hip hop, street dance. It’s my thing.’

‘Street dance?’ I almost laughed.

He nodded and grinned. ‘I can salsa too. An ex-girlfriend dragged me to the clubs.’

‘You look nothing like a dancer.’

‘What does a dancer look like?’

‘I dunno. Cooler, I guess.’

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘Maybe I was cool when I was in college.’

I shrugged. ‘OK, dance is your thing. Yoga’s my thing.’

‘Yoga.’ He nodded, looking at me. ‘You must be very ... flexible.’

I felt my cheeks getting hot. ‘I guess I am, yes.’

‘I’ve never done yoga. I always fancied doing that hot yoga – what’s that called?’

‘Bikram.’

‘Yeah, Bikram, that sounds like a good time. All hot and sweaty.’

I looked down at the bar and sipped my wine; this conversation was getting weird. ‘I’ll just go and check the screen in case something’s changed,’ I said, and hurried out to the concourse.

I breathed in the cool air outside the bar; my heart was beating fast. I didn’t know what to think of this man – and was he flirting with me? He was kind of attractive but no way close to my type. I hate those corporate banker types. I stared at the screen above the departure gate, my mind racing. I wanted to go to the bathroom and check my hair and make-up. I swallowed. Why? I wasn’t interested in him. Why did I care what I looked like?

I went back to the bar; he was looking at his phone. He looked up as I approached, his dark eyes glinting. ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘You went to check on the flight. Is the plane leaving?’ he asked slowly.

‘Oh, err, still just over an hour to go,’ I said, feeling stupid as I sat back down.

‘Then cheers.’ He held up his glass.

I picked up my wine and pressed it to his. Our eyes met, his gaze was penetrating. I looked away quickly, fixing my gaze on the dark wood of the bar.

‘Oregon’s nice, right?’ I said quickly to cover my awkwardness.

‘It has something for everyone I guess, mountains, oceans, nature.’

‘I love being outdoors. When I visited Portland I didn’t really see much. I would have liked to stay longer.’ I rambled on about my trip to Portland a few months ago, trying to forget the intensity of his gaze that was still burning in my mind.

‘Portland’s cool but I don’t know it too well. I didn’t visit anything when I was there. I was just working,’ he said. ‘I’m from New York. But I go where the work is.’

‘What do you do?’ I asked.

‘I’m a consultant.’

‘Of course.’ I almost laughed. I should have guessed. The expensive suit, expensive watch, the smooth talking, definitely a banker or a consultant.

‘What does that mean?’ he asked, turning his head and giving me a puzzled look.

‘Oh nothing. It’s just I’ve met consultants before.’

‘Really?’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘And what are consultants like, then?’

‘Very good at talking. I mean they have to be, right? They come into situations and have to understand pretty quickly. You have to be able to communicate.’

‘Am I good at talking?’ he asked, grinning.

‘I mean ... I don’t know, I guess you must be.’ My cheeks were burning.

He looked at me, holding my gaze with his dark eyes. I refused to look away; he wasn’t going to intimidate me, no matter how successful or attractive he was. I could practically hear my own heart beating in my ears.

‘You’ve just come from Portland. You’re from New York. Now you’ve got three weeks in Reading – you are in for a treat,’ I said, finally unable to hold his gaze any longer. I looked around the bar, anywhere but at him.

‘Is that sarcasm? I can never tell with you Brits.’

‘Well, it’s pretty far from New York City. But I guess Reading is close enough to London, so you can always go there for entertainment.’

‘I’m not looking for entertainment.’

‘Oh no?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m here to work. I don’t need any distractions.’

‘Three weeks? Just working?’ I asked. ‘What do you do for fun?’

He looked at me and winked. ‘I told you, whiskey. It keeps me balanced. Work, whiskey and dancing, they’re the only things I need.’

I looked at him, trying to imagine him dancing but I couldn’t. He looked too much like a banker.

‘Enough about me. What do you do for work that takes you to India?’

‘Yoga. I teach yoga,’ I said, and then swallowed a sip of wine. ‘I was in India for a yoga conference for two weeks to update my techniques. I teach at the Yoga Centre. It’s a way of life.’

‘In Reading?’ he asked. I nodded, holding the glass in front of my mouth to hide the lie. I hadn’t been at a yoga conference. I’d been on a factory visit, developing products in India, but for some reason I didn’t want him to know that I had a corporate job too. I’m only doing this job to be close to Mum, I reminded myself. Yoga is who I am, anyway.

‘You’ve never been tempted to try yoga?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘No. I’m not flexible. But if you’re offering, I guess I could give yoga a go.’ He looked at me and I found myself thinking about James Bond again, tall, dark and corporately smooth. I glanced at his whiskey – shame he hadn’t ordered a vodka martini. It was too much. ‘I wasn’t offering,’ I said. From the corner of my eye I noticed movement at the gate. ‘Looks like we’re leaving.’

He looked around. ‘Saved by the bell. That’s a shame. Just when things were getting interesting.’ He motioned to the barman for the bill. I took out my purse.

He held up his hand. ‘I said I was buying.’

Should I protest? Equal rights and everything ... I watched as he placed a black American Express card on the bar and decided not to. I gathered my things and remembered my broken bag. I picked it up and carried it in my arms. Why did it have to break in front of this guy? I felt like an idiot next to him with his posh designer case. Like a right cheapskate, like I couldn’t afford something decent. I frowned; I was doing it again, caring what I looked like to him. Being around money had that effect, didn’t it? It made people vain.

We moved to the boarding queue and stood together in the line. I could sense him next to me and it made my skin prickle. I pulled my passport out of my bag and held it. I shifted my denim jacket over my arm. I was full of nervous energy.

‘You’re a dancer?’ I said, to break the silence.

‘Uh huh. I learned when I was a kid, then taught dance at college.’

‘That’s cool.’

He grinned. ‘Does that surprise you?’

‘A bit,’ I admitted. ‘You don’t look like a dancer.’

He laughed. ‘You said that already, I’m not cool.’ He looked down himself. ‘Not any more. And certainly not dressed like this.’ I glanced at his suit as we shuffled forward in the queue. What did he wear to dance? Baggy jeans? Leggings? I couldn’t imagine him in either.

‘May I see?’ he asked, pointing at my passport. I opened my mouth to say no but closed it again. I passed it to him. He looked at my personal information. I watched, feeling exposed.

‘Luna Mae Perry?’ he said, with a smile. ‘Cute name.’

‘Not really.’

‘I like it.’

‘Imagine being a yoga teacher called Luna? It’s a bit much.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘My mum was going through a hippy phase.’ He handed the passport back. ‘Brent. Your mum was kinder to you.’

Brent smiled. ‘My mom never did anything for me out of kindness.’

‘Ah.’ I glanced at him. What was I supposed to say to that? Awkward silence weighed between us as we edged forward.

‘Still, that’s cool that you can dance,’ I said, pretending he hadn’t said what he had about his mum.

Brent laughed. ‘It’s hella cool. Even if I’m not.’

I breathed, relieved the atmosphere had eased. We boarded the plane. I walked in front of him, moving slowly down the aisle, awkward with my broken bag in my