Page 111 of Sweet Distraction

Her curls lift and fall with the movement. Her eyes are wide and her smile is . . . it’s incredible.

Willow slides into the swing beside her, and for a second, the two of them are in rhythm.

Back and forth—the sun on our faces—Poppy’s giggles the music I never knew I needed.

Because if I hear it, that means I’m doing something right. That means I’m not messing up yet.

Something in me cracks open. It’s the weirdest, most foreign, most gratifying feeling that I couldn’t put words to if I tried.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

This weightlessness.

This connection.

Did my mom ever feel this way about me? Did she ever swing beside me in some forgotten park and feel like she might actually be enough?

Nah. I didn’t matter to her. I was a burden. A responsibility she hid.

Never.

Poppy will never feel like that. I’ll never let her.

When she swings forward, she lifts her head up so that she can look at me. Our eyes meet. Fuck me. She’s absolutely adorable.

And . . . mine.

And I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more whole.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Willow

The record store smells like old stories, dust, and vinyl. It’s the kind of nostalgia you can’t bottle.

Poppy’s curled up on a beanbag in the middle of the store. She’s content watching the lava lamps that the old record store has on various display cases. They mesmerize her, and I welcome the quiet as she’s been rather fussy today.

It was a long night to say the least. A nightmare yanked her from her sleep and produced murmurings of “Mommy.” The only thing that calmed her was snuggling with Rocket as she traced the tattoos on his chest until she fell asleep.

Then a Zoom therapy call this morning. Not exactly the easiest when you’re on the road and the therapist has a hands-on approach, but consistency is more important than anything and so we’re doing the best we can with it.

Tour life is simply chaotic. Messy. Incredible and tough simultaneously.

The guys have been welcoming. The buses are a new experience. The hotels have run together so much so that they all seem the same.

But the way Rocket is with Poppy? The way he’s learning how to be a dad in the in-between moments of all the chaos? How he’s doing his best to communicate better with her? How when she’s cranky and insufferable, he puts her head on his chest and sings so the vibrations calm her down?

All those little moments with her, the ones I try to be invisible for or watch from afar, are what’s making me slowly fall for Rocket Caldwell.

Then of course, there’s the sex. Um . . . wow. Like . . . the man knows how to make a woman feel everything. And since Poppy has mostly coped better with all these changes than I anticipated—she’s the definition of resilient—sneaking into the adjoining room at night has been an easier feat.

And then there are times like this. Rocket surprising me on an off day with a trip to explore the city. Lunch in a rowboat so Poppy can feed the ducks. A merry-go-round ride. And now this . . . us, slow-dancing mid-aisle, between the jazz and the rock sections. It’s impromptu and sweet and totally unexpected.

“This doesn’t seem very rock star-ish of you,” I murmur.

“I’m trying to sneak a kiss in the middle of a music store. Can’t get more rock star than that.”

“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes at him and twist my lips.