Page 35 of Sweet Distraction

“I’m not a bad guy,” he says. “I just . . . never wanted to have kids. Never thought I’d be this. And it’s overwhelming to have someone make that choice for you and then be thrown into it three years later without warning.”

“That’s valid,” I say.

“Every part of me wants to buck against the idea that she’s mine, but she’s my goddamn reflection.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. He sees what anyone would see from the outside, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to accept it without a fight.

“Fuck.” The word is a long, drawn-out sigh that emotes exactly how he’s feeling. I’ve seen families where the children are the afterthought. Not necessarily loathed but not exactly wanted. The career-driven parents who believed that having kids was just part of life’s goals—checking off the list. They’re the parents who reluctantly bond with their mini-mes, but it takes time. Sometimes more than others.

“It’s not always something that’s automatic,” I say. “The connection. The loving your child. Sometimes it takes work and time, but it happens eventually.”

“I’m well the fuck aware of that. I’ve lived it. I know that. But you’re wrong. It doesn’t always happen,” he says, and by the aversion of his gaze back down to his bowl, I can tell he fears that he’s said too much.

But it’s enough for me to know he has scars from his past resulting in the emotional tumult he feels right now.

That I can at least work with.

“This is one of those moments,” I say finally. “Where you either jump . . . or you don’t. You can sit on the ledge for a while, but at some point, you have to decide who you are and what you’re going to be to her.”

He studies me. Really studies me like he’s trying to decide whether he hates that I see him or if he’s grateful for it.

“You know, you’re the second person who’s said something like that to me tonight. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not quite there to appreciate it just yet.”

“Noted and I appreciate the honesty.”

He scoots his stool out, grabs his ice cream and spoon, and looks at me. “I’ll leave you be. I’m sure the last thing you wanted when you came out here was some surly asshole like me.”

Before I can respond, he turns to go. I think I’m slightly relieved that he does so that I can overthink this entire interaction. But before I can even start, when he’s halfway down the darkened hall, he pauses and then tosses over his shoulder. “Good thing your boss is fuckably hot because I heard he’s emotionally constipated.”

I blink.

My mouth falls open.

And then he disappears into the dark, chuckling.

Shit.

CHAPTER TEN

Rocket

It’s been three days.

Three days of tiptoeing around my own house like it belongs to someone else. Three days of waking up late and staying up later. Of pretending I’m answering emails I haven’t even opened so that I have a reason to stay behind my office’s closed door. Then there’s my blasting music to avoid the sound of muted giggles and hearing enthusiastic praise.

Because yes, I need to come to terms with the inevitable but fuck, man, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I’m far less emotionally evolved.

I bang on the keyboards to feel. I wail into a mic to get that shit off my chest. I run errands that I don’t need to run to escape my own fucking house.

Three days of her.

Willow.

The nanny.

The nanny who shocked me with her thin tank top and assessing eyes. And yes, it was a dick move to flirt with her the other night. But doesn’t it prove I’m unfit to be a father if I’m struggling to get her out of my mind?

Yes. That makes me a fucking douchebag. It says I’m still thinking with my cock and not enough with my brain. Which seems to be what got me into this mess in the first place.