Page 21 of Sweet Distraction

Poppy nods and then looks my way, her eyes stalling on my ink again.

I hold my arms out and take a step closer. “Do you want to look at them?” I ask, causing her to startle and move behind Willow’s shoulder for what I can only assume is protection. “Maybe another time, then.”

I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her now that I’m this close. Now that I can see the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose or how her fingernails are painted a light pink. Now that I can see how tightly she clutches the stuffed rabbit beneath her arm or how she instinctively reached out upon seeing me to keep her hand on Willow’s shoulder.

Think, Caldwell. Say something. Do something.

So I take a step back, lift my hand, and wave.

Eyes the same color as mine hold me captive as seconds stretch before she offers me a shy, hesitant smile . . . and then waves back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Willow

Rocket watches Poppy’s every movement. Her every expression.

His arms are crossed and his body’s still, almost as if he’s afraid to move. Like if he breathes too loud, she’ll vanish. And by the way she jumped behind my back when he took a step forward, she just might.

“She looks like me,” he murmurs.

Poppy has taken a seat on the other side of the room. She wandered there herself with her stuffed animals and is setting up what I am making out to be is some sort of house on the floor with throw pillows used as a crude wall around them. She has methodically arranged her stuffed animals in a neat little line. Bunny. Fox. Elephant. All worn in the way toys get when they’re loved hard and carried everywhere.

“She does. Yes,” I say, knowing she’s just out of earshot. Clearly, he’s her “friend” at this point and so that’ll be a whole other topic to figure out—when to tell her he’s her dad.

“And the not talking thing?” His Adam’s apple bobs with a fleeting glance my way.

“In simple terms, it’s her way of coping.”

“But she’s okay, right? Nothing happened in the accident to her physically that . . .” He speaks like he should be presenting in a boardroom. Unemotional. And yet, while it can be read as not caring, the fact that he’s asking when he seems so conflicted with the entire situation tells me that in fact, he does.

“Physically, yes. Emotionally . . . time will tell.”

He makes a noncommittal sound as he shifts on his feet, his gaze never leaving Poppy for more than a second. Moments ago, he was looking anywhere but at her and now it seems he can’t look away.

I take the moment to study the man I’ll now be living with. His hair is a dark brown, a little shaggy, but only in the way it curls at his neck and over his ears. His eyes are the same vibrant green as Poppy’s, but whereas hers are full of wonder, there’s wariness in his. He’s tall, I’d say a few inches over six foot, and while he’s not bulked with muscles, it’s obvious he’s fit. And then there’s his array of tattoos that Poppy seems completely fascinated with. They twist down one arm and over a very defined forearm stopping just before his wrist.

And on that wrist is the only flashy thing on him, what looks like a very expensive watch. It seems completely out of place with his faded jeans, navy blue V-neck shirt, and combat boots.

“This is—” He steps forward, then stops short like there’s an invisible line he doesn’t know how to cross. “Her mom. Olivia. I barely remember her.”

I nod in response.

“Not because she wasn’t anything but . . . I mean, it was just a quick thing.” He groans. “I know how that sounds, how that makes me look. It’s just—”

“I’m not here to judge.” But I am judging and I’m wondering how common this kind of thing is for him. If the rock star stereotype is true.

I’m far from a prude, but I can’t say that random hookups are my thing. Sure, I’ve had a few in my adult life, but my mind veers to the logistical element of this. Is this a norm for him? If so, does he bring women here? How am I supposed to sit with Poppy watching shows while he’s having some wild, loud sex in his bedroom—wherever in the house that may be? And while I’m at it, does he throw crazy parties here? Do I need to be worried about cleanliness and the things Poppy will inevitably put in her mouth?

“But you are judging,” he says, his eyebrows raised and his eyes firmly on mine now. I’m aware how willingly he shifts to topics he can argue with me on rather than interact with Poppy. It’s like he starts to peek his head up from behind his guarded wall and then ducks down the minute he realizes he’s doing it. “You’re judging and wondering and questioning about my sex life and my reputation and everything in between.”

I hold my hands up. “I’m here for Poppy.”

He grunts and holds my gaze, but he doesn’t defend himself or how many women he’s slept with, which is where I thought this conversation I never wanted was going.

His eyes drift back to Poppy and her mindless playing with her stuffed animals.

“This is insane,” he says to no one in particular.