Page 99 of Sweet Distraction

And yeah—maybe I’m dying inside a little. Because the truth is, they’re not wrong. The house doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Not really.

It feels better. Lighter. There’s laughter in the halls and coffee cups that aren’t mine on the counter. There’s hummed lullabies and belly giggles. There’s walking down the hall in the morning in anticipation that I’m looking forward to seeing the two girls.

And yes, while that terrifies the shit out of me, it’s also different. Good.

Will it keep? Fuck if I know.

I clear my throat. “Let’s write something.”

“Nah, we just came to razz the fuck out of you,” Gizmo says.

I shoot him a look. “You’re assholes.”

“We can be even bigger ones,” Hawkin says as he turns the knob on the studio door. “We can tell Willow all about our song we made about her.”

“Sweet Distraction,” Vince says.

“Met her in a juice box haze . . .” Gizmo sings as he shuts the door behind him.

I lift my middle fingers at the direction of their backs, but I’m smiling.

And I don’t even try to hide it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Willow

The sun’s hot, the water’s perfectly cool, and Rocket Caldwell is currently the most distracting man on the planet.

He’s in black swim shorts and nothing else, standing thigh-deep in the shallow end of his pool like some kind of tattooed rock god.

Oh, wait. He is.

The way the droplets roll down his chest should be illegal. His abs flex every time he moves. And don’t even get me started on his low rumble of a laugh whenever Poppy does something cute.

And she is damn cute. Poppy’s wearing bright pink floaties and is perched on the pool’s Baja shelf with a purple plastic narwhal in one hand and a determined expression on her face. She tosses it as far as she can. When it lands with a splash, she throws her arms up to cheer it on and then waits for it patiently—or not so patiently—to come back.

Rocket laughs. “Popstar, you’re going be dangerous with that arm,” he says. This time when she throws it, it hits him, and he responds by being overdramatic, pretending he’s wounded, and falling backward into the water. She erupts in a fit of giggles and then plops down in the water herself, letting her floaties keep her on its surface where she’s playing beside me.

I smile as Rocket moves to my side, where I’m sitting on the submerged step with the water at my waist. Our thighs brush against each other’s, and all it takes is that little touch to have memories skittering through me.

Three nights ago.

His hands.

His mouth.

The way he groaned my name like a confession.

The memory lives rent free in my head but leaves so many questions unanswered.

Like, what the hell happens when you live with someone you’ve slept with? Do you sneak around once Poppy goes to sleep? Do I initiate that desire that’s on constant simmer or wait for him to invite me to his room at night?

I mean, he had no problem pulling me into his office, out of Poppy’s view, and kissing me senseless earlier, but how much is too much since we see each other every day?

When do you cross the line from being playful to clingy to way too much?

What exactly are the rules?