Page 82 of Sweet Distraction

It only takes me a few seconds to do what I need to do. To make a clear but subtle statement about where my head—and where my cock hopes—to be at.

I hold it back out to her just as a car horn honks out front.

“Perfect timing,” she says.

“You have fun,” I lie.

“Bye, Pops,” she calls over my shoulder into the family room. “I’ll be back in a while like we talked about, but you’ll be asleep. I’ll give you more kisses when I get home.”

Poppy’s curls bounce as she nods, but she doesn’t get up. She keeps turning the pages of her board book. In the moment, I’m not realizing it, but I know later it’ll sink in that her lack of a reaction means she’s comfortable with me.

“Maybe I should—”

“Go,” I say. “We’ll be fine.

“You sure?” She smiles, and the sight of it tugs on something inside me that I don’t understand.

“I’m sure.” Seconds ago, I was needing her to stay and now I’m begging her to go. Get a grip, Caldwell.

But before I can say anything more, the door closes behind her.

I stare after her like I’ve just been punched in the gut.

What the actual fuck is she doing to me?

I’m jealous—of the nanny. The fucking nanny.

I could snap my fingers and have a pool filled with naked women and get lost in any number of them. Women who wouldn’t hesitate. Women who wouldn’t ask me questions or talk about anticipation or wear goddamn dresses that make my whole body hurt.

But I don’t want any of them.

I want her.

And that? That’s the most dangerous part of all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Willow

I close the door behind me and immediately regret everything.

Because my skin’s still tingling. My dress suddenly feels tighter. And Rocket? He looked at me like I was the problem and the solution all in one.

Holy hell.

That look. It wasn’t just attraction. It was possession. Like he’d already played out every conceivable way to undress me in his head and was now choosing which one to act on.

And it did something to me. To my insides. Something violent and stupid and reckless.

God, I want to go back inside.

But I force myself toward the curb where Lily’s waiting, engine idling, lip gloss shimmering, looking like she’s about five seconds from screaming something wildly inappropriate out the window like she’s sixteen again.

“Get your ass in the car, girl,” she shouts out the open window, proving my hunch and our long-standing friendship true. “I was about to come knock on the door, hoping that fine-as-fuck man would open it and give me more fuel for my fiddle box.”

“Fiddle box?” I slide into the passenger seat with a laugh, tugging down the hem of my dress and trying to reassemble my dignity.

“Yes. Fiddle box. Men have spank banks. I, the demure and modest woman that I am”—she rolls her eyes—“have a fiddle box.”