Page 112 of Sweet Distraction

“What? You can think of somewhere better?”

He spins me out and twirls me back in so I land solidly against him. My chuckle is seductive as I lean in and whisper, “I can think of a few other places that would be even sexier.”

“Name the place, sweetheart.”

“Rooftop? Sound booth? Our bed at home?”

He groans when I say the last one—we’ve both been saying how much we miss home—but luckily for me, he didn’t catch the our bed part.

Would that spook him?

I don’t know how it would since we’re basically living together, but I’ll leave it be.

“You know what, Wills? You just threw down the gauntlet. I definitely intend to pick it up,” Rocket says.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“And I’ll be wanting.” His hand is on my back, warm and possessive. His other hand curls around mine so that his thumb brushes lazy circles against my palm as we sway in the middle of the empty aisle.

The song coming through the speaker ends and a new one begins. It’s a seductive jazz number that’s slower. Sexier. The kind that wraps around you and dares you not to feel.

Rocket leans in, voice low and rough. “I didn’t expect to enjoy this as much as I am.”

“The record store?” I lean back to meet his eyes.

He shakes his head, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest. “No. The tour. You two being here. Exploring with you. It’s . . . so vastly different from what I’m used to.”

My pulse jumps because it’s not just the words, but rather the way he says them. Like he’s trying to understand them too, because they’re so unfamiliar.

“I’m hoping that’s a good thing.”

“Very. I’ve had a lot of things in my life. Noise. Fame. Girls. Chaos.” He pauses, his thumb absently brushing over the back of my hand. “But this? It’s . . . more. Not in the way I thought I wanted. But in a way I didn’t know I needed.”

My throat tightens, and I don’t know what to say. Because this still isn’t a declaration. It’s not a label. It isn’t a promise. But it’s honest.

And coming from him that means something.

He gives me a slow, shy smile. “Let’s just say I’m starting to like the quiet. You’ve made me like the quiet.”

Something shifts in the moment. It’s intimate and undeniable. How can that simple statement mean so very much to me?

My chest presses into his, and his hand slides up my back beneath the hem of my shirt. And when he lowers his head, lips so damn close to mine, I feel it.

I want it.

But then he freezes.

I feel the hesitation before I see it. His hand stiffens. His eyes flick sideways toward the store window. And then he pulls back so casually it hurts.

Like we didn’t just share a moment.

I blink, still swaying slightly, heart thudding in my throat, and confusion front and center as he moves about the store.

“Rocket?” I ask, trying to understand the sudden shift in his demeanor.

He gives a shake of his head before walking back toward me, but keeping a display of records that fall waist high between us.

I look away, pretending to check on Poppy, and trying to weirdly not feel rejected. I can acknowledge that it’s a valid emotion to feel.