Page 32 of Sweet Distraction

He chuckles, turns to rest his ass on the counter, and crosses his arms over his chest. Of course his biceps flex with the motion and make his tattoos dance.

“Toddler-proofing?” He lifts an eyebrow. “That’s what you want to choose to talk about right now?”

I swallow forcibly and hope to God he can’t hear it like I just did. “Yes. Proofing.” It’s better than letting my eyes wander and my thoughts drift.

He angles his head to the side, and I can’t tell if this whole situation is an act. If he’s so used to toying with fans and groupies that he knows how to use his looks to make someone else uncomfortable. Or win them over.

And I’m falling right into that trap.

“Aren’t you ever off the clock?” he asks.

“Does that mean you’d like to step in and take over with her?” I ask. I challenge. A simple comment to knock me back into Willow-the-Nanny-ville and out of Rocket-is-a-rock-god-ville.

And the clenching of his jaw gives me the answer.

No. He’s not ready.

No. The time spent writing music—if that’s even where he went—didn’t suddenly make him realize that he has a daughter and he needs to figure his shit out.

Emotionally constipated. Yes, that still fits.

“Ever heard of the word no?” he asks, not answering the question.

“Meaning?” I’m confused.

“Instead of toddler-proofing. The word no should work.”

That comment gives me all I need to know about his experience with kids.

“Of course.” My smile is taunting. “Works perfectly. Just say it, and a three-year-old falls right in line.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Do what you need to do,” he says with an indifferent flicker of his fingers.

“Thank you. I was . . . if I was looking around, I just didn’t want you to think I was snooping or anything.”

“How would I know that if I weren’t here?” he asks, turns back to the open pantry, and starts picking items up and then putting them back down.

“Cameras. Security measures that people like you probably have.”

“People like me?”

“Famous. Someone people stalk. I don’t know.”

He wobbles his head back and forth like he’s contemplating my description of him. Clearly he’s okay with it because he continues on arguing. “There are only cameras on the outside,” he says. “Never had a need for them inside before.” He moves toward me, stopping right in front of me. I have to angle my head up to meet his eyes. I pray the sudden thumping of my pulse isn’t noticeable in my neck because I feel like it’s visible from a mile away. “Do I need to worry about you, Willow?”

His voice. The timbre. Those words. The seductive quality to them is undeniable. I want to step away from him, to gain some space, and yet he’s right in front of me—so close that I can see the flecks of gold on the center of his irises.

“No. Of course not.”

“Why do I make you nervous?” he asks as he reaches out and puts his hand on the counter beside me.

“You—uh—don’t. Just new places, new faces. They make me jumpy.”

The subtle nod says he’s not buying the lie I’m selling. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs and leans in even closer.

“Thanks.” The syllable is breathless. Embarrassing. But he’s so close, and all I can smell is him as he fills my entire line of sight.

“Willow?”