Page 23 of Sweet Distraction

Her bottom lip begins to quiver as she taps a hand over her heart—the gesture we’ve been using to say she wants her mommy.

A sullen reminder of why we’re here and the enormous tragedy this little girl has endured.

“What does that mean?” Rocket asks.

I look up and hold his gaze. “She wants her mom,” I whisper.

The air in the room shifts.

Rocket flinches like my words slapped him.

He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look at me. Just stares down at the floor, jaw flexing, and words escaping him.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I have an appointment. One I . . . couldn’t reschedule.”

My stomach twists.

“Of course,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“We’re writing new music. Usually, they’re all-night sessions. I probably won’t be back until late. Later. Maybe even the morning. It just—we just go until we can’t.”

“Right.” I nod. I also hate that I’m disappointed. Hate that I spent so much time making sure Poppy’s hair was perfect and that her bows were bright. That she smelled like baby lotion, and that her outfit was adorable.

I know none of that should have mattered, but I thought first impressions were huge, and I wanted hers to be incredible. I wanted him to fall in love with her at first sight, just like I did.

Guess none of that superficial preparation mattered.

His smile is tight, and his eyes dart to anywhere but me.

“There’re rooms down that hall there for you two. Big beds. Bathroom with each room.” He points off to the left of the kitchen. “Third and fourth doors on the right.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Food is here in the kitchen. Plates. Drinks. Cups. Pantry.” He points absently to each as he talks. He can’t get out of here fast enough. “Make yourself at home. To get settled, I mean.”

“We’ll be fine,” I say as graciously as I can, but I won’t deny there’s a chill to my tone.

His gaze flicks to Poppy once before he grabs his phone, wallet, and keys off the counter. “She, uh . . . she should eat something more than that,” he says like I haven’t already created a routine for her, like I haven’t already built my life around taking care of kids and their needs. “You’ll have to make me a list of food she—you—like, and I’ll get it taken care of. Drinks. Snacks. Juice. Milk. That kind of thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have a person—she shops for me. Cooks when I want her to—I really am sorry that I have to get out of here. We’re on a schedule. A deadline and . . . this was unscheduled.”

“How inconvenient for you,” I say.

Clearly my sarcasm wasn’t missed by the way he stops in his tracks and meets my eyes. There’s an apology there, the ever-present dose of fear, and a little bit of anger, no doubt directed my way.

But he doesn’t say anything in response. He doesn’t argue with me. He just stands there leveling me with an indiscernible look while his daughter he’s given a whole few minutes of his time to is sniffling beside me. Focus on her, Willow. She’s sad.

I can see the muscle pulse in his jaw even from this distance, and with nothing more than a subtle shake of his head, he dumps the coffee he barely touched in the sink, raps his knuckles on the counter, and walks out of the kitchen.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And Poppy’s eyes stay locked on the direction I’m looking . . . maybe because I am. Or worse, maybe because, despite her age, she senses rejection.

What’s he going to do when he can’t run away or hide behind making coffee anymore? What’s going to happen when he has to face the reality that Poppy is his daughter?

I guess that’s when we’ll see the true man that Rocket Caldwell really is.