Page 73 of Sweet Distraction

He lifts his brows and chuckles at some memory only he knows. “Because it was the only thing that made sense when nothing else did.” He shrugs. “Because when I couldn’t say how I felt, I could play it, even when I didn’t understand it myself.”

“I get that.” Maybe I need to get Poppy an instrument. Maybe that will help her feel connected to Rocket.

“I never knew my dad. My mom had a revolving door of boyfriends. She was so busy trying to keep them around—for their money, for the way she thought they gave her value, for an escape from having to be a mom, I guess. I was pretty much left to raise myself so she could entertain them. I spent a lot of nights shut in my bedroom or on the back porch or falling asleep in the back seat of the car as to not disturb her and whatever she had going on so I used music to keep me company.”

A lump forms in my throat. There’s nothing I can say or do to change the damage of his past, but it does give me some explanation as to why he fears fatherhood. I had a hunch, but he just confirmed it.

“How did you settle on the keyboard?” That should move us to safer territory.

His grin is lightning quick and mischievous as fuck. “Diana Finkleman.”

“Who?” I laugh because the way he says her name with mesmerized awe is like a grade-school kid who has a crush.

“She was a friend’s sister. Taught piano down at the local church. She was so hot. So . . . developed for a sophomore.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I was a freshman, and at that age all it takes is a stiff breeze to make you hard. Can you blame me?”

“No,” I say through a laugh, wondering what a teenage Rocket was like.

“Dude, everybody wanted her. I mean, I didn’t come from a church-faring family or anything,” he says. “But that church had some damn good cookies.”

“And they had Diana teaching piano lessons.”

“Exactly.” He gives a shake of his head. “The church was quiet. There wasn’t any yelling. And when Diana sat beside me, her chest would brush my arm every time she leaned in to show me finger positions and scales and . . .”

“And so you asked her to show you again and again.”

“I did.”

“And you fell in love with the piano.”

“More like I fell in love with her and the attention she gave me because I had a knack for it.”

“You were good.”

“I was good. I could listen to a song or series of notes and play it back without needing sheet music or practice.”

“That’s incredible.”

“I was fortunate to have that knack. The more people I meet in the industry, the more I realized it’s rare. But yeah, learning piano wasn’t sexy at the time, but it earned me my first kiss with Diana,” he admits and grins. “And it came in handy.”

“Clearly.”

“Gizmo and I met Vince and Hawkin at a house party years later. They were talking about putting a band together. I convinced them they needed someone who could play the keyboard.”

“And the rest is history?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Four guys from fucked-up homes figuring their own shit out. We gravitated toward each other. Became friends. Now are brothers.”

“That’s a cool story.” I grab the pillow and hug it to my chest. “Thank you for sharing.”

He reaches out and tugs on one of my bare feet. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

The question catches me off guard. “I mean, if you wanted to change the subject, you should be a little less subtle. There’s no way I would’ve gotten the hint.”

“Why beat around the bush?” But his hand is still on the top of my foot, and his thumb is still brushing absently back and forth. “So . . .”