Page 38 of Sweet Distraction

“Said what?”

His smile is quiet, but his eyes are knowing as he gives me a nod and lets me digest that tidbit. “My daughter.”

My conversation with Vince yesterday comes back to me as my attention veers over to Poppy. Back to her playful spinning that has her starting to wobble and weave as she stops, but the world keeps rotating around her. She staggers as she holds her hands out for imaginary walls to hold her up as the dizziness subsides.

She is all smiles and laughter and innocence. She’s lit up, completely unrecognizable from the quiet, cautious girl who arrived three days ago.

What was her life like before . . . everything? Did she have a yard to play in? Grass under her feet and sunshine on her skin?

The Olivia I knew briefly was a decent person who I’d assume took her daughter for walks in the park and cuddled her every night . . . but that’s the thing, it’s supposition. I just don’t know.

The gut punch that thought evokes is real and one I don’t think will ever truly be answered.

Willow picks Poppy up from her dizzy stagger and pulls her in for a hug. They are unsteady and fall back onto the grass holding each other tightly, all while Willow lavishes her with affection.

And I’m . . . I’m jealous.

Of a three-year-old.

Of her laughter.

Of Willow being the one who gets to see it and bring it out in her.

I scrub a hand down my face. Don’t go out there, Rock. Leave them be.

But my feet move before my brain agrees.

By the time I push open the front door and step outside, the music from the portable speaker they brought outside shifts into a pop summer track with a catchy beat. Noticeably not rock, which strangely has a smile tugging on my lips.

Willow is at the hose spigot, turning the water off and the arches of water spraying on the plastic slide are slowly growing smaller and smaller. Poppy is crouched near a bed of flowers, squatting and sticking her nose in them and sniffing them audibly.

Willow turns just as I reach the edge of the patio.

Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me. I’m shirtless from my workout. She’s nearly dripping. We both freeze like we’ve caught each other naked when our state of undress is so very normal.

But nothing about this feels normal.

Her eyes skim down my chest—quick, involuntary—and then snap back to my face with a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.

I clear my throat. “Didn’t know you were throwing a rave out here.”

“We were hydrating the grass,” she says.

“Oh. Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Willow grins, quick and crooked, and then looks away like it costs her something to keep it playful. At least there’s that.

“Poppy wanted to cool off, and I thought it was a good opportunity to get her outside in the sun for a bit and get some of her energy out.”

“She’s smiling,” I murmur.

Willow nods as she angles her head and studies me. “Yes. She is. More and more. It takes time to build trust, even with a three-year-old.”

I’m not sure if that’s a dig or a suggestion, but I just nod and hold those brown eyes. “Suggestion noted.”

“That’s not what I meant. That it was a suggestion.” Her cheeks flush with color. She’s flustered. “That you’re doing something wrong.”

“Wills, I’m doing everything wrong. I know it.” I glance over to Poppy where she’s studying the flowers. “It’s hard to break cycles you’ve lived in your whole life.”