Page 64 of Sweet Distraction

“No. Please.” I hold my hands up. “That’s the last thing I need repeating in my head when I go home and come face to face with Willow.”

“One more,” Hawkin says and jumps right into the lyrics.

So don’t ask where he’s been or what he’s doing tonight . . .

He’s busy with the nanny.

And she’s doing him right.

“Please tell me we were recording that,” Vince says as he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes.

“That’s our next Grammy winner right there. Sweet Distraction,” Gizmo says and hits the cymbal to accentuate his words.

“Fucking hilarious,” I say with a heavy dose of sarcasm in between bouts of laughter.

“You’re laughing. That means we did our job,” Hawkin says.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Willow

I’m halfway through the financial aid form I’m filling out online when I hear the door creak open.

I lift my gaze from the glow of my laptop to see him standing there.

Rocket.

Hair mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of a worn tee. His expression somewhere between exhaustion and something rawer. Like the kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands in the entryway to the kitchen like he’s not sure if he should come in.

“Hey.” I close the laptop gently. “How was the writing session?”

“Meh.” He shrugs but gets the most playful tilt to the corner of his lips despite the somberness in his expression. “Funny. What I needed.”

“That’s good then, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Another muted response.

I angle my head to the side and study him. “What is it?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fingers flexing like they want to grab something.

“I, uh—” He drags in a breath. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

That gets my full attention. I swivel on the barstool and face him head-on. “For what?”

“For not trying hard enough.” His voice is low but certain. “With Poppy. With this whole thing.”

My heart stutters.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, stepping forward. “None of it. I’ve been trying to act like I’m unaffected, but the truth is . . . I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing. She’s a kid. And I’m just—me.”

I swallow the lump building in my throat. “Rocket—”

“I keep waiting for someone to come in and tell me I don’t qualify. That this was a mistake. That someone better is on the way. Someone who knows what bedtime songs are supposed to sound like or what to do when she wakes up crying in the middle of the night asking for her mom.” His voice cracks a little, just enough for the edge to fray.

“No one knows those things off the bat. That’s something you learn with time. With trial and error,” I say, desperate to ask him what brought this epiphany on. Was it his bandmates? Was it their wives who reported back after our pizza party a few nights ago when I didn’t have answers for their endless questions about how much Rocket participated?