Sweet Distraction ✔︎

[15] 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔

Returning to bakery after the weekend away with Evan was like reentering the atmosphere. Isabelle felt as if she were in a dream-like fog, one she’d experienced before when immersed in an unexpected wonder of the world—the canopy of green trees and temple silhouettes in Burma, the crashing majesty of Victoria Falls, a herd of gazelles leaping over the golden-brown plains of the Serengeti.

Except then she’d always been alone. She’d chosen to be alone. Much less risk of getting hurt.

She smothered her unease over the acknowledgement that she didn’t feel alone with Evan. She’d been upfront with him from the start about leaving as soon as Jupiter returned. She didn’t have to feel guilty about enjoying his company.

She did think about his health, though. Part of her was still in disbelief that her big, strong Evan could ever have so much as a cold, much less a serious medical issue. His heart defect explained why he hadn’t gone on roller coasters at the boardwalk, why his mother’s foundation helped special-needs children, why he disliked girlfriends with a caretaker complex, why he’d reacted angrily to Isabelle’s remark about wanting to make him “feel better.”

The knowledge of his condition also intensified her feelings for him—she liked him even more for trusting her with the truth, and her admiration for him increased tenfold. She tried to set aside a newfound fear, focusing on the fact that Evan was much stronger and more capable than men with no medical issues at all.

He had also been right about Napa—the romance of the valley and all its offerings had given Isabelle quite a bit of material for her blog. She started writing posts about the bike trips, the Wine Train, and the station with its own “love lock” bridge.

But as she worked, Isabelle still drew a blank when it came to compiling a new manuscript for Elaine Miller of Franklin Publishing. She would not rewrite her history into a “sex-starved woman abroad” memoir, and she didn’t want to dredge up her own romantic history, or lack thereof, to add a personal flavor to her essays.

All she had to offer was her photography and her reporter’s posts about love traditions. If that wasn’t enough for Franklin Publishing, then Isabelle wasn’t enough.

The blank was the only thing marring her thoughts, especially now that Evan came into Rainbow Palace every day during his lunch hour.

Sparks of happiness flared inside Isabelle whenever she turned and saw him standing on the other side of the counter, his hands in his pockets, his gaze on her, and his beautiful mouth curved into a smile.

She started setting aside his usual order of a ham-and-cheese croissant sandwich, followed by a Declair from her secret stash and a cup of coffee. Sometimes, if it wasn’t too busy, she’d sit with him for a few minutes and ask about how things were going at Candy King. He’d then return after work to either take her out or spend the evening in her apartment, which invariably led to very hot and satisfying overnights.

Four days of this routine passed before Isabelle realized that her thoughts of leaving had lessened. They hadn’t gone completely silent—thinking about where to go next was such a habit for her that she doubted she’d ever be rid of it completely—but now her mind had shifted to when will I see Evan next?

She even caught herself glancing at the clock after the morning Declair rush was over, calculating how long it would be before he walked in the door. She felt silly about her reaction, but she also rather liked it. She’d forgotten how good it felt to have a crush on a boy. A real “like him like him” crush that went beyond physical attraction.