Page 106 of Sweet Distraction

After the last encore’s played and the show’s over, backstage would not exactly be considered much calmer. The band winds down in the greenroom. They have towels over their shoulders, beers in their hands, and by their animated conversations, they’re still buzzing with adrenaline.

I sit on the couch, Poppy curled beside me. Her headphones are still on, the crackers she was snacking on have fallen sideways onto the seat beside her, and her eyes are closed. I can’t believe she lasted this long. No doubt this whole schedule thing will have to be adjusted as the tour rolls on, but in my opinion, it’s important she sees Rocket on stage. For her to see what he does and who her dad is.

The guys playfully relive moments from onstage. Screwups or miscues that no one else would’ve picked up on except for them. It’s fun to simply observe them and their brotherhood, but just like Poppy, I’m fading from exhaustion too.

I shift in my seat, take a sip of my wine, and will myself to stay awake.

But when I look up, that problem disappears when I meet Rocket’s eyes.

His look? It’s not innocent. It’s dark. It’s heated.

It says I remember how you tasted, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

And I feel it. Everywhere.

The ridiculous relief I feel that he still wants me is chased away by something much stronger—desire.

We haven’t been on tour for more than a few days, but Poppy’s had a rough time adjusting to unfamiliar places and settling down at night. That means that even with adjoining rooms with Rocket, she’s been sleeping in the bed beside mine, and if I move in the slightest, she wakes up panicked.

Which means other than a few stolen kisses that tell me he’s still interested, there hasn’t been a single act of sex.

And while that might be a blessing in disguise because it forces us to take whatever this is, slow. It also creates one hell of a slow burn that I’m hoping will explode into a wildfire sooner rather than later.

That also means I’m currently one flirty Rocket smirk away from combusting in public.

Hendrix slides in beside me. A week into the tour, she showed up and for the past few weeks I’ve come to find that Gizmo’s wife is bright and bold and completely unapologetic. I love her for it. We’ve become closer over the last few days, in huge part because Poppy is infatuated with her, and I’m incredibly grateful she’s on tour with us.

She nudges me and talks quietly. “You look like you need a stiffer drink. Or an orgasm. Or both.”

I choke. “Jesus.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

I say nothing because the glance that Rocket just gave me is scorching.

She just laughs and leans over to brush a curl out of Poppy’s face. “She’s sound asleep.”

“The headphones help with that. Much easier to fall asleep when you can’t exactly hear the noise all around you.”

“True.” She pats my leg. “Want me to watch her for a bit? Give you a break?”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. She likes me. Plus if she wakes up, I can ply her with snacks and screen time. I’ll convince her that Hendrix is a perfect name for that new teddy bear Rocket bought her today.” She knocks her knee against mine. “Go. Rehydrate. Flirt with the rock star some more. I’ll text if you’re needed.”

For a split second, I hesitate.

And then I close my eyes and nod. “You’re a goddess, Hendrix.”

She winks. “I know.”

With one last look at Poppy, I wander down the hallway looking for water or maybe just a second to catch my breath. At home, I can leave Poppy to play in her room or watch shows in the great room. Here, I don’t have that freedom, and Poppy doesn’t have that comfort to do so . . . and so it’s been me, on call, twenty-four seven. Yes, that’s my job, but a break every now and again is welcome.

Especially when that break means I might get some alone time with Rocket.

But before I even make it to the end of the corridor, a door opens, and I’m grabbed.

“Hey!”