Page 79 of Sweet Distraction

“Okay,” he says. “Now let’s get those pancakes burning.”

He does a little dance that has her clapping her hands together, and all I can do is sit where I am and stare, reeling as I think of last night. The kiss. The way he held my hand to his chest. “Just this.”

And now this morning—with his daughter. With me.

And I know.

I’m fucked.

Well and truly, absolutely fucked.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Rocket

The sun is setting, the crew is working at a snail’s fucking pace, and the guy running the auger keeps glancing at me like I’m going to sign his ass to a record label. Normally I don’t supervise shit like this, but since we’re off tour, the bands’ personal assistants were given the first month off, and this is on me.

Plus? This is something I want to do myself, like a dad who has his shit together.

Newsflash. I don’t.

At least that was my thought until these guys started dragging ass and taking twice as long as I was promised.

How hard is it to core some holes in the concrete and slip those tiny posts for the child fence into them?

My cell is tucked between my shoulder and ear while I move one of their rusted drill bits off the cushion of my patio furniture. Sandra drones on in her clipped tone about power of attorney and rights and who the fuck knows what else because as usual, I stopped listening ten minutes ago.

“You’ve stopped listening, haven’t you?” she asks.

“Of course not. I never tune out.”

Her laugh is rich and throaty and sounds like she’s upped her occasional cigarette to several packs a day. “You forget how long you’ve been my client.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” I roll my eyes and move to pick up a piece of plastic trash that has fallen out of one of the boxes the workers have opened.

“So, how’s it going? How’s dad life?” Her tone is cautious. Searching.

“It’s good. Better. Poppy’s adjusting well and getting more comfortable with . . . all the changes. Willow’s keeping everything under control.”

“That’s good. Great. And how are you feeling about it all?”

Memories of the past four weeks flash through my head. It feels like forever and just a minute—but the moments flicker like a slideshow through my head. Poppy giggling on the kitchen counter the other morning and painting with pancake batter on the kitchen counter. Her on a tricycle on the back grass, crashing into the cones I set up for a racecourse. Stacking blocks up as high as we could before I used my head to ram them and knock them down—just so I could hear that belly giggle over and over. The memories are starting to stack up, and the fact that there are some amazing ones causes my chest to ache in the best way. I smile. “I’m slowly adjusting. It’s a big life change that I’m figuring out.” I wave to the contractors as they say goodnight and head home. “You got any idea what Olivia’s parents are thinking? You don’t just call without a reason. Are they going push this?”

There’s a pause on the line. I’m not going to like what comes next.

“I’m not certain yet, but my gut tells me that we need to start preparing for it. Testimonials from family and friends, people who know how you are with kids.”

My stomach tightens, and I bark out a dry laugh. “That might be tough because I’ve never exactly been around kids before. Not until”—I glance toward the back door—“now.”

“You have your bandmates and their kids. You’ve spent time with them, and no doubt they’ll vouch for you.”

“Exactly. That means it won’t hold any weight because they’re expected to vouch for me.”

“What about the nanny?”

“Nanny?” I repeat the word like it’s foreign because I realize I’m staring right at Willow, and every goddamn coherent thought I had seconds ago, vanishes.

Fuck me.