Page 22 of Sweet Distraction

“I’m going to have to agree with you on that one,” I say.

He runs a hand down his face, scrubbing over his jaw, and then looks back at me. Again, it’s not arrogance or deflection I see in them—it’s absolute disbelief.

And buried beneath that, something I can’t exactly name. Hope? Disbelief? Possibility? Disgust?

“Do you want some coffee?” he asks. Again, another way to deflect instead of sitting down with his daughter.

“Only if it’s stronger than whatever it is you were drinking last night,” I say, trying to ease the tension in the room.

His smirk is back. Lazy. Dangerous.

Oh. Don’t do that, Rocket.

“Coffee it is,” he says, already heading to the kitchen. “Last night’s drink of choice was warranted for many reasons, all of which I’m sure you can understand.”

“Uh-huh.” I stand and run a hand down Poppy’s back as I watch him move behind the kitchen island.

“You’ll learn I’m an excellent host on a normal day.” He pulls down two mugs. “Today is nowhere close to being normal.”

“Can’t disagree with you there.”

I shouldn’t feel this amused by his discomfort and his awkward comments to avoid facing what he’s not exactly facing.

I shouldn’t feel anything.

But when I glance at Poppy still playing with her animals and then over at Rocket, who looks shell-shocked . . . I know.

I know this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Rocket lingers in the kitchen like it’s safer over there, behind the counter, behind the noise of pouring coffee and clinking mugs. Making coffee is something he can control.

How he reacts to a rosy-cheeked little girl, on the other hand, is something he can’t control. In his eyes, he seems to think it’s safer for him in the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns with a mug in one hand, the other shoved into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Coffee,” he says with a shrug, holding it up like a white flag. “Fresh. Strong.” He clears his throat. “Like I promised.”

Poppy looks up from her spot beside me and watches him. She’s not afraid but more curious and wide-eyed. There are questions in her eyes, in the furrow of her brow, and I swear she knows this new man standing near her is more than just a friend.

She studies him for a long time, far too aware for someone that young. She glances at his tattoos again, then at his hair, then at the faint scar near his eyebrow. The way her fingers twitch, it’s almost as if she wants to touch him.

He sits on the edge of the coffee table, careful not to get too close but close enough that he’s part of the space now.

“Do you . . . do you want something?” he asks, speaking softly and lifting his own coffee mug.

“Juice or snacks?” I add. She nods. “I have both in her bag.” I start to move, but Rocket’s already on his feet.

“I’ll get it.”

He moves to her bag and stares at it for a second too long before he lifts it gently and unzips the top.

I know what’s inside—a few changes of clothes, three board books, a T-shirt of her mother’s, a blanket, and pictures of her and her mom in frames wrapped protectively and stowed in the very bottom. But on top is a lunchbox that has juice and a half-open pack of fruit snacks.

He pulls the lunchbox out, his hand trembling slightly before he makes his way back and hands it to me.

Poppy tugs on my sleeve, her eyes sad despite the newfound snacks and points toward the door.

“What is it?” I ask.