Page 53 of Sweet Distraction

And if they do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to put them back.

Vince is right. I start the engine. I drive back over the roads I took hours ago and end up parked in the lot of a dark, seedy-as-fuck bar. Perfection.

I sit there for a few minutes before I go in, alone with my silence and the weight of two words I never thought I’d hear.

She’s yours.

And I wonder what it’s going to take to finally believe it.

And if I will ever be able to father a little girl who has no one else.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Willow

The house is dark. Unnervingly still.

I know Rocket came home—saw the headlights in the driveway, heard the front door click sometime after midnight, felt the subtle shift in the air—but I didn’t hear his footsteps after that. I’ve gotten used to his late hours. The clatter in the kitchen or the low hum of the television on, but tonight, there was none of that.

Nor was there an answer to the text I sent him an hour ago. Are you okay?

I should leave it alone and respect the boundary he’s obviously put in place. Something triggered him earlier. It was almost as if seeing all the women in his life together, doting on his daughter, flustered him.

Or made this more real than it already has been.

I stand in the kitchen, uncertain why I’m not going to bed. Call me weird and reaching, but something about the silence feels wrong, especially after Rocket tore out of here earlier without an explanation.

The travertine tiles are cool beneath my feet as I move through the hall, past the living room and the kitchen. With a quick glance at Poppy sleeping quietly on the baby monitor in hand, I move down the corridor that leads to the studio and game room. Somewhere near the end of it, I hear it—a low, repetitive clack . . . clack . . . clack.

A pool table? Clack. Has to be a pool table.

I hesitate at the cracked doorway, unsure if I’m about to walk into something I don’t want to see. A drunkfest? Drugs? A woman? A broken man?

My concern outweighs my fear.

I push the door open.

The room glows with a single low-hung pendant light over the green felt. The light is dim and hints at pinball machines on the far side, arcade-style gaming units, and various other man cave items at the edge of the shadows.

But it’s Rocket who holds my attention.

He’s standing with his back to me, pool cue in one hand, shoulders tight, and bare feet planted as he bends over the table. He moves with quick precision, and within seconds the sound of balls smashing together violently echoes in the quiet.

As if on autopilot—or deep in thought—he moves to the far end of the table and collects the balls to rack the shot again. His face is etched in concentration and his lips move as if he’s talking to himself but no sound is coming out.

He lines up the break again. Hits the ball. Hard. And clack fills the room once again.

“Rocket . . .”

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even startle. It’s almost as if he already knew I was here and was just biding his time. Either that or the empty bottle of whatever it is on the table against the wall and the glass beside it are enough of an indicator that he’s numb.

“You probably don’t want to be around me right now,” he finally says, voice gravel smoothed by sandpaper, as he moves back around the table to hit another ball.

“Why?” I ask, drawn into the room and him in a way I’ve never been with someone before.

“Because I’ve drank more than is reasonable. Because I’m pissed. And because when both of those things happen, I typically like to fuck them out of my system and, Wills . . .”—he tsks and turns toward me for the first time, eyes flashing with a glint of something that borders on danger and desire—“. . . you’re within reach.”

My breath catches.