Page 45 of Sweet Distraction

“You’re trouble,” I finally murmur, folding my arms.

“Perhaps.” He grins. “Definitely. It makes life more interesting.”

I laugh, despite myself. The sound floats between us as he puts his elbow on the back of the couch and rests his head on his hand. “You didn’t answer me,” he says. “What makes you, you?”

I shift, playing with the hem of my shirt. “I guess I’m still figuring that out.”

“No rehearsed speech about how you’ve always wanted to work with kids and make the world a better place?”

“Oh, I definitely want to make the world better. But not in a ‘Miss America, here’s my platform’ way. I just want to leave people better than I found them. Especially the small ones.”

“That’s a damn good answer.” And just when I think he’s going to leave it there, he asks, “What interested you about teaching? And why the special needs field?”

“My mom was a teacher. It’s in the blood.” I toggle my head from side to side. “And I had a cousin who was special needs. I always hated how outside of our family, when we were at school, she needed a little more of everything than everybody else, and her mom had to fight so damn hard to get it. Not everyone is comfortable around kids who need more—I am. So I figured why not specialize in that field.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really. More just being a good human.” I smile. “God, that sounds cheesy—”

“But I like it. It feels right when you say it.”

“So why the laptop? Should I worry you’re searching for teaching openings now because you’re sick of your current boss? Don’t have me panicking, Wills.”

“No. God. I just . . . I started my master’s a while back.” Ran . . . out of money. Time. Bandwidth. “And now I’m thinking of starting back up during this lull, so to speak.”

“You’re telling me I’m a lull?” He barks out a laugh. “Can’t say that word has ever been used to describe me before.”

“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

He waves a hand to stop me from explaining. “Master’s in what?”

“Special education.”

“Quit being so impressive,” he groans. “You’re making me look bad.”

“How many platinum records do you have on the wall in your office? Please.” I snort. “What about you?”

He blinks. “What about me?”

“Who are you? Not Rocket—the rock star—but more the guy underneath all of that. The guy the world doesn’t always see. What makes you tick?”

He goes still. Not defensive. Just caught off guard.

And for the first time since I met him, I think I might have asked a question he doesn’t already have a practiced answer for.

“You can read about me anywhere on any site on the internet. I can’t promise it’s all accurate but it’s true enough.”

“You’re right. I can look you up and I have.” I have no shame in admitting it, and by the lift of his eyebrows, I think he is surprised by the admission.

“But you want more.”

“I want more. I want the non-media trained answers.”

“I assure you media training doesn’t work on me. What you see is what you get.”

“Noted, but appease me.”

He sighs. “Willow.”