Page 16 of Sweet Distraction

Like that.

“No. Actually, I’m not,” he deadpans, his vibrant green eyes assessing and judging and criticizing all in one fell swoop. “That’s why you’re here.”

Oh. That’s how this is going to be. Disbelief laced with anger. Rejection edged with irrefutable proof.

I stare at him, eyes narrowed, but knowing my place. I’m not exactly getting the best first impression of Rocket Caldwell.

But I’ll reserve judgment. At least, I’ll try to.

Alan clears his throat as Rocket’s eyes veer back to Poppy. “All of the legalities have already been taken care of by your attorney. Paperwork, medical records, any and everything else that was found in her mother’s place.”

“Fine.” He glances around his own home like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

“Then it’s probably time that I get going,” Alan says and glances to me with a reassuring look. “A social worker will be checking in to check on how things are going in the coming days and weeks, but if you have any questions, I’ll leave my card on the counter here. Willow also knows how to get ahold of me.”

He runs a hand through his hair and then hangs it on the back of his neck, despair owning every ounce of his posture. “If I said no, you can’t go, it wouldn’t matter, would it?” he asks with a half-assed chuckle.

“No. I’m sorry. It wouldn’t,” Alan says.

“Our bags,” I say, realizing they’re still in the car.

“I’ll get them,” Rocket says and moves toward the door without waiting for a response.

Alan glances at me again. “You okay?”

I nod and whisper, “Yeah. It’ll be fine. This is a lot for anyone.” And I mean it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not wary about what the coming days will bring.

“Okay. Call me for anything.”

“Will do,” I say as he rushes out of the house and after Rocket to get our bags out of the car.

Within seconds of the front door shutting, there’s a thunk from our bags hitting the floor, followed by a very long, drawn-out sigh, and then a pause before the footsteps carry back my way.

I know he’s there, just behind the couch, and we both sit in that uncomfortable silence as we play a game of chicken over who’s going to speak first.

I decide I should.

“Thank you for bringing the bags in.”

“I haven’t even figured out . . . anything,” he says.

“It’s okay. She’s little. She’ll fit anywhere,” I joke as he passes me, moves to the other side of the room, and then finally turns to face me.

“I appreciate the jokes, but this situation is far from funny.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” I tuck an errant curl off Poppy’s cheek to behind her ear and when I look back up, he’s studying her again.

It must be weird to look at someone, at the spitting image of you, and know they were in the world and you didn’t have a clue.

“Do you prefer Rocket or Gavin?” I ask.

“I don’t respond to Gavin.” He snorts. “Ever.”

“Noted.” I nod and then begin to say the spiel I’ve replayed over and over in my head the past few days, knowing the situation I had agreed to walk into might be difficult. And if I practice what I need to say, then at least about 30 percent of it will sound right before the rest goes off the rails. “So I know this is a weird situation for both of us. I’m here to help you. To make sure there’s some stability for Poppy after everything she’s gone through and to make sure that she’s cared for. No doubt you’ve been through an emotional roller coaster too that you’ve yet to have time to process.”

“Your point?”

“Don’t kill the messenger—figuratively, of course.” I lift my eyebrows and shift. “I’m here to make your life easier.”