Page 46 of Sweet Distraction

“Call me a greedy bitch.”

He chortles out a laugh. “That’s the last thing I’d call you, but we’ll go with it.”

“Good. Tell me about Gavin.”

“I’d rather talk about Rocket,” he deflects.

“Noted. But Gavin is the person here without the media or the world watching his every move. Gavin is the man trying to figure out why he’s curious about Poppy but keeps her at arm’s length. Gavin is the man I see glimpses of.” I shrug.

“Gavin is a man I don’t know anymore.”

“Don’t tell me you had a secret life as a choir boy.”

His mouth twitches. “Worse. I wanted to be an astronaut.”

“No way.” I definitely wasn’t expecting that answer.

“I had this cheap, plastic helmet I wouldn’t take off for months. A Halloween costume discard I saw in a thrift store window when we were walking by. I had to beg my mom for it. Her boyfriend at the time ended up buying it for me to shut me up and occupy me. Man, I loved that thing. I ate cereal in it. Slept in it. Called myself Rocket Man.”

“Is that where the name came from?”

“Yup. Stuck in fifth grade after I made a presentation about space exploration. One of my drawings I did—I used to draw all the time—was mixed in the papers I brought to school. It was an image of my helmet with Rocket Man written in block letters. Some great work, if I say so myself.” His chuckle is bittersweet. “Anyway, the class prick—some asshole who needed a lot of fucking love in life—picked up the drawing and played keep away from me with it. Held it up for the class and called me Rocket to get a laugh. It stuck.”

“I bet that brat straightens his shoulders every time he sees you all the million places people see you, and brags to others that he’s the one who made your name for you.”

“Probably.” He runs a hand through his hair and eases back in his seat, more comfortable now. Maybe because he doesn’t think I’m going to grill him on where his head’s at with Poppy.

“So, what happened to being an astronaut?”

“First time I went on a roller coaster, one of those upside down ones . . . I learned I’m not a big fan of being upside down. Ended that dream real quick.”

“Valid point,” I say. “So you became a rock star instead. Fair trade.”

He barks out a laugh. “Can’t complain at how life worked out for me.”

“Neither would I. It must have been a wild ride.”

“Is. Was. Continues to be.” He scrubs a hand over his face and a mischievous smile stays in his wake. “The wildest of all rides.”

“Even better than going upside down?”

“Way better.” He looks out toward the pool and his expression changes like he’s reliving some of the greatest hits of his career. “If you would’ve asked little Gavin Caldwell if he could’ve ever dreamed this would be his house and his life, he would’ve told you that you were crazy.”

He appreciates it.

I’m not sure why that notion strikes me so poignantly in the moment, but it does. Here is a superstar who I thought was so spoiled and selfish, who has done this for so long that he took it all for granted, and yet here is Gavin, telling me otherwise.

But just like I’m having a hard time reconciling Rocket with Gavin, I’m also struggling to see this man before me and not understand his reluctance to acknowledge Poppy.

Hell, might as well bring that up while we’re at it . . .

“You haven’t been around much,” I say quietly.

He tenses. “Meaning?”

“Nothing. Just . . .”

“I have a feeling there is nothing you say without intention.”