Page 71 of Sweet Distraction

Poppy stirs so that her beloved bunny falls into my lap. I pick it up and toy with the ears. The damn thing has seen better days.

The same could be said for me.

When I look up, Willow’s watching me. Her expression is guarded, but her eyes hold nothing but warmth. There’s no judgment in them. No mockery. “Thank you for being patient with me. For helping teach me. I just hope I can be the man and father she deserves. I just hope I can make her love me.”

Her eyes fill with tears—quick and quiet—and I don’t know why that hits me hardest. Why her softness undoes me more than any song ever has.

“You will be. You already are. It’s just hiding,” she says. “She’ll love you because you’re her dad. She’ll trust you because you won’t let her down. She’ll want you to be the one to hold her because you’re where she’ll feel safest.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“So was becoming a world famous rock star and you kicked ass at that, right?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Willow

I can’t sleep.

Not because I’m uncomfortable or because Poppy is restless. She’s tucked in tight in her bed next door to mine, snoring softly, with her favorite rabbit under one arm and one finger twirled in a curl of her hair.

No, I can’t sleep because of his comment. I just hope I can make her love me. It plays on a loop in my head, along with the image of Rocket sitting beside me with his broad shoulders tense and his brow furrowed. It was as if letting me see that side of him took everything he had.

And that wrecked me a little.

So after tossing and turning, I give up on sleep, tug on a sweatshirt, and pad quietly down the hallway and into the kitchen.

The house is dimly lit by a soft glow spilling from the family room.

I turn the corner and find him there. Rocket’s sitting on the couch with one arm sprawled over its back and a glass in his other hand. Whiskey, probably. The drink you sip when you’re chasing silence.

Or regretting your choices.

He paints a striking picture. A lonely one. He’s staring out the windows at the Los Angeles valley beyond. It’s a glittering stretch of chaos that eventually falls dark when it hits the Pacific.

He has to know I’m here. It’s not like I tiptoed into the room, but he doesn’t turn or look my way. He just lifts his glass to his lips and then lowers it back down after he takes a sip.

I’m drawn to him in a way I’ve never been to a man before. Is it because I think I can fix him? Is it because he’s so different from the people in my small circle, and there’s a thrill to that?

“You’re up late,” I say.

He doesn’t look over. “You too.” He shrugs. “I’m a night owl. It’s way too early for me to sleep.”

I hover for a second, figuring he probably wants to be alone.

“Come sit,” he murmurs.

I know before I take a step that this is the point of no return for me. It’s not his looks or personality or fame that attracts me, though . . . it’s his vulnerability. His willingness to try. That’s what is blurring lines for me that were so well defined before.

I cross the room and sink into the opposite end of the couch, pulling my knees up under me. I look out toward the same view that’s captured his attention. “Thanks for letting me join you.”

He nods. “Do you want a drink?”

“No. I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Lots on my mind,” I say.