Page 40 of Sweet Distraction

The same damn second that I hear it.

I freeze. The uncertainty of that term and the negative connotation it’s held for me my whole life, startling me. The one I don’t want to own yet.

“I’m sorry,” Willow murmurs to me, regret woven into it. “I didn’t mean to—it was a slip of the—”

Poppy bounds up to us, breaking the tension. She holds three different colored flowers in her hands as she steps up to me, head angled as she studies me like a grown-up would. Her brow is furrowed and expression confused.

Willow’s head shakes back and forth emphatically. “No. I meant friend,” she says, sounding anxious.

I could tell her it’s okay. I could say it’s no big deal, but for some reason, I don’t. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am emotionally constipated, but a part of me wants to see how this plays out.

Will Poppy hear the term, the label, and simply believe it? Does she even know what it means since she’s never had one? Or if she does know what it means, will she reject the thought that this man kneeling in front of her, covered in weird markings and who is clearly scared of her, as being her dad?

Does it matter?

Yes. It does. And I hate that it does.

All I know is that by prolonging this reveal the harder it’s going to be for Poppy. Again, selfish asshole.

Poppy points to me, and between the expression on her face and the shrug of her shoulders, I know she’s asking Willow, “Then who is he?” in reference to me.

Willow moves abruptly, heads toward the planter, and picks up a decorative garden stone I have in one of my flower beds. It’s about three inches wide and light gray in color with black swirls of sediment in it. She moves back to us, drops to her knees beside Poppy, and holds the stone out to her.

Poppy furrows her brows but takes the rock and then giggles when her hand dips under its weight. She hums a sound, almost as if to say how heavy it is.

“I know,” Willow says. She points to the stone in Poppy’s hands and then points to me and says. “Rock.”

“I’m her rock?” I say out of reflex but unknowingly play into the game Willow is setting up.

“More like her rock”—Willow points to the stone and then to me—“et!” The way she says the last part has Poppy erupting into a fit of laughter before scrambling to get closer to me.

I suck in a breath as she steps into my personal space, closer than she’s ever been before to me. Her eyes grow big as she holds the rock up next to my face . . . and then bursts out laughing again. This time, it’s a deep belly giggle that has chills chasing over my skin and something cracking over that hardened shell of my heart.

And fuck . . . I don’t like how it feels.

She waits until the laughter subsides and tries it again. This time when she sticks the rock next to my face, I say, “Rock,” and then I throw my arms up in the air and say, “Et!”

She falls into another fit of belly giggles so her pigtails bounce and her hands tighten on the rock in her hand.

“Don’t look now, Rocket, but someone thinks you’re funny.”

I nod because my tongue feels thick in my mouth. I don’t know why I just did that, but it feels good to have made her laugh.

The breeze kicks up. Willow’s hair dances across her shoulders, and Poppy keeps laughing.

Suddenly, I don’t want to leave and finish my workout or hop on another Zoom with Gizmo.

I want to stay right here, standing on the patio, watching my daught—Poppy—laugh and trying to figure out how to be someone she can count on.

I want to ask Willow how she knows so much. I want to know what makes her think I have what it takes to do this when I don’t even know.

Too much.

Too quick.

Just too fucking much.

But instead, I step back and clear my throat, retreating toward the door.