Page 124 of Sweet Distraction

Or maybe that’s what I want to believe they mean.

“I’ve already told you I’d pay for the master’s program.”

“I know, and I told you I don’t need you to. Your generosity has already made it easy for me to complete my master’s program.” And set me up to pay off my existing student loan debt.

“Maybe I don’t want you to have any reason to want to leave.” He tilts his head, eyes drifting lazily across the room before locking on mine. “You’re way over here in the house . . . and I’m way over there.”

“Damn architect.”

“I know. I was thinking of calling him up and having the rock starrest of all rock star tantrums over it,” he says playfully.

“Oh, no. Not that.” My smile is genuine, and my heart has never felt this . . . full.

“The tour meant you were just right here. Next to me. All the time.”

My pulse skips a beat. God, the way he said that—so casual, so devastating—it’s almost like he’s stating a fact. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s cracking something open inside me.

“It is your house. You’re more than welcome to try out your guest bed . . . if you want.” I shift.

He approaches me slowly, eyes playful. “Never done that before.”

I laugh. “You’ve never slept in your guest rooms?”

He sits on the edge of my bed and gives it a quick bounce, testing the springs like he’s making a very serious decision.

“Nope. Never.”

And then, before I can say anything else, he reaches for me, tugs me gently between his knees, and wraps his arms around my waist. His head presses against my stomach like I’m the comfort he wants.

My fingers sink into his hair instinctively. It’s soft and still damp at the base of his neck. I run my nails lightly over his scalp, and his body relaxes against me like I’ve just flipped some hidden switch.

“That feels good,” he murmurs. “Keep doing it, and I’m going to fall asleep. I feel like I haven’t slept in months.”

“Because I don’t think we have.” We did. We slept, but how good do you really sleep when every place is somewhere new? “But the tour was good. The reviews were incredible.”

“They were.” He nods. “And I got to show you and Poppy some of the country and some of my world.”

My throat tightens. “Yes. You did.”

He tilts his head up. It’s too tempting, and so I give in to my need, take my time, and lean down to brush my lips against his. The kiss isn’t rushed. It isn’t playful.

It’s slow.

It’s sensual.

It’s a thank-you, a don’t stop, and a you matter to me more than I can explain, all contained in this simple touch of our lips.

There’s a whimper from Poppy’s room. I rest my forehead against Rocket’s to listen, and then I hear it again. I press a kiss to his head before slipping out to check on her.

I expected a rough night. Sure, she’s back home and she’s tired from playing with less restrictions, but I also look at it as another reminder that her mom isn’t here. Just because she’s three and can’t effectively communicate that she misses her, doesn’t mean she doesn’t.

I sneak in and adjust her blanket around her and her bunny, press a kiss to her curls, and murmur, “Love you,” before walking out.

When I return to my bedroom, Rocket is propped up against the pillows, one arm behind his head, eyes closed like he’s finally fallen asleep.

I study him—the lines of his body, the relaxed look on his face, how he looks lying in my bed waiting for me—and my heart thunders. It’s never been more apparent than right now that I’m in love with Rocket Caldwell.

Ooof.