Page 115 of Sweet Distraction

She thinks it’s the coolest thing in the world that food can be delivered to your bedroom.

“Willow?”

“I’m trying to protect it. I swear I am. But he makes it really hard.” The words catch in my throat. This—these feelings that keep growing—weren’t supposed to happen.

“Because he’s not who you thought he’d be?” she asks.

“Exactly. I mean, he’s . . . good.” I pause and then say the next part more to myself than to her. “That sounds weird. He’s good, but not in a perfect, polished way, but in this raw, gritty, I’ll bleed for you kind of way. He shows up. He tries. He fights.”

“Sounds like someone you could fall for.”

“Truth?” I ask.

“Always.”

“I think I already have.”

We sit in silence for a beat, connected by the hum of the line and the weight of what I just admitted.

“I’m happy for you. You deserve to be swept off your feet and shown the world. But two things . . .”

“Oh, God, you’re going to make a list.”

“I am.” She chuckles. “First, he’s a star, but you also deserve the limelight. Second, protect your heart, but don’t guard it so hard that you run from something real.”

“I’m not. I’m just scared of what happens when the spotlight fades.”

“Then make sure you’ve got something that still shines when it does.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Rocket

I’ve played to eighty thousand screaming fans without missing a beat.

I’ve stood half-drunk on rooftops while paparazzi chased a car they thought I was in like a pack of wolves on the city streets below.

I confronted my mom when I was a teenager and told her I no longer wanted her in my life because all she brought me was hurt, even though I knew that meant I might become homeless.

But nothing, and I mean nothing, has made my hands sweat like this moment. Like right now.

I tap my fingers against the paper coffee cup, trying to abate some of the tension. It doesn’t work. My palms are slick, and my knee won’t stop bouncing.

Because I’m terrified of losing my daughter.

I’ve never met Olivia’s parents before. Never even heard their names until recently—Jean and Denny Whitmore. And now I’ve invited them to a coffee shop two blocks from the venue like I’m not about to be their worst nightmare in real time. Or them, mine.

Grief? Anger? A slap across the face?

I can easily handle that, but what I didn’t expect was the weight of silence that enters before they even say a word.

Mrs. Whitmore walks in first—spine stiff, shoulders tight, her purse clutched like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Mr. Whitmore’s not far behind. His stare lands on me and doesn’t leave. It’s cold. Controlled.

I stand before they reach the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore—”

“You have some nerve thinking you’re better for her than we are,” Mr. Whitmore says. His jaw’s clenched so tight I don’t know how his teeth aren’t cracking.

I nod and struggle with what to say. Everything I had planned in my head has disappeared. “I just wanted to talk. About Poppy.”