Page 47 of Sweet Distraction

I chuckle because he’s right. I raise my hand to make light of it. “Guilty as charged.”

He nods. “You’ll find I’m normally straight to the point.”

“Who’s also my boss.”

“Semantics.” He shrugs and smirks. “Speak your mind, Willow.”

“Well, the first night I was here, you escaped to get drunk. Just about everything about Poppy was a shock to your system—her being alive, her being here, you name it. Understandably. It’s been almost a week and now you’re just escaping to go to the store and random places for no reason at all.”

“Because learning one has a child should be a seamless transition, right?”

“No. That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . .” She’s a good little girl. I see in your eyes you know that, you believe that, and yet you keep your distance. I don’t understand how you can even resist her.

He watches me for a beat, then says, “I’m still here.” And those three words could mean so many things.

You’re questioning me, and I’m still here.

I found out I have a daughter, and I’m still here.

I scrunch my nose up because as frustrated as I am at him and what appears to be a lack of progress, those three words say more than I thought they did moments ago.

I’m still here.

“I stand corrected,” I say, barely audible.

“I don’t want you to stand corrected,” he says, voice flat but irritated. “I want you to understand where I am. Who I am. A guy who deals in facts. Who needs concretes. Who . . . just had his world rocked and is trying to process it all.”

I meet his eyes—calm, certain—and challenge him when I have no business challenging him. “Her being here? Her reaction when she looks at you, and you feel that punch in your gut, or have the oxygen sucked out of your lungs—you know? The times you decide you need to bolt? That’s your proof, Rocket. That’s enough for you to know you need her as much as she needs you. You might not know it yet. You might not acknowledge it yet. But it’s there, and you fucking know it.”

He sighs and gets up, moving toward the edge of the patio. The sun peeking through the slats of the patio cover outlines his frame—broad shoulders, long legs, hands planted on his hips as he stares out at the view beyond.

He paints a striking picture. Broken. Beautiful. Unmoored.

“You pay me to be her advocate,” I say. “To give her the best. To look out for her. You being a part of her life is looking out for her.”

He hangs his head and rolls his shoulders. “Look,” he says without turning to look my way. “I didn’t grow up with a dad. I had a mom who worked double shifts and who had a rotating door of boyfriends, all of which taught me exactly who I never wanted to be.”

I don’t say anything.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “I don’t know how to be what she needs. I hope I can get my shit together and figure it out. But frankly, in the meantime, in between time, if I stop moving, I might start thinking. And if I start thinking, I’ll realize how badly I could fuck this up.”

“Said every parent ever in one way or another,” I murmur and draw a look my way.

His eyes hold such a depth of emotion, but his expression is unreadable. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted. Money. Fame. Notoriety. I never have to worry about anything again. And then all of a sudden, the one thing I never wanted, the one thing my childhood fucked me up and told me I never wanted, shows up on my doorstep. I had no fucking choice in the matter.”

And this time, when he looks back to the view beyond, I don’t press any further.

I gather my things and leave him be.

I’ve pushed enough.

I was hoping he’d push back more. I was hoping he’d ask me how. Because it’s only in fighting that you can sometimes see your true self and face your worst fears.

And it seems that Poppy is that to Rocket.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rocket