Page 94 of Sweet Distraction

Willow freezes, and she drops her forehead to my chest. She groans but is already jumping off the bed.

“I’ll go,” I say.

“Not with that, you won’t.” She motions to my erection and scrubs a hand through her hair.

I watch her walk out the bedroom door. The sun halos around her, and her tanned legs move down the hallway until I can’t see her anymore.

I stare at the ceiling and wonder how the hell my life got turned upside down by a nanny, a three-year-old, and a night like last night that was damn-fucking-fantastic.

Christ, Rocket. When did you get so soft?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Willow

It’s almost disturbingly easy.

This morning after—well, more like the night after—our first time.

I thought there might be awkwardness that came with time and reflection after we both separated this morning to do our daily routines. I assumed Rocket—freewheeling, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants Rocket—would realize he just slept with the woman he lives with and now feels a tad trapped. And me, the overthinking, stress-case me, would mind-fuck what happened seven ways from Sunday so that all interactions would feel awkward and be laced with my unfounded panic.

What I didn’t expect was this ease. This sense that nothing has changed and everything has simultaneously, but that, in and of itself, isn’t a terrible thing. Or the texts that came randomly throughout the day from behind the soundproofed studio walls.

Rocket: Poppy good today? How was your walk? Find any new bugs for her to squeal over?

Rocket: Stuck trying to figure lyrics out. Will be shut in here a while longer.

Rocket: Dinner together later?

I replay them in my head now as we move around the kitchen like we’ve done it a hundred times—like we’ve choreographed it naturally. I pull the veggies from the fridge just as Rocket slides a pan onto the stove. He steps back to grab silverware and trails a hand down the middle of my back on the way.

Not in a possessive way. Not overtly sexual.

Just . . . warm. Affectionate.

Which, honestly, throws me more than anything else could. I never took Rocket Caldwell to be an affectionate guy.

Maybe it’s just because I live here. Maybe he’s trying to make me feel comfortable.

And maybe you need to stop invalidating this moment, Willow, and just go the fuck along with it and see how it goes.

I glance at him as he opens the drawer for knives, humming something low under his breath—probably a melody he doesn’t realize he’s writing.

I shouldn’t like this as much as I do. The easy rhythm. The casual glances. The comfort in the unforced silence.

It feels a little like playing house, which sounds weird. It sounds like I’m a crazed person who’s planning a wedding and a future . . . but that’s not what I’m talking about. There is this grown-up feel to it. A toddler sitting on the barstool playing with her plastic animal set that Quinlan got her. Rocket setting the table while I prep the vegetables.

It’s not like we’re pretending, but rather we’re just enjoying the moment. The feeling.

“No. Just this. Don’t read into it. Let’s not pretend to be something we’re not. Just enjoy the moment. The anticipation.”

Those were his words, his advice, that night we kissed on the couch, and I think they’re worth repeating right now.

Whatever this is, I like it . . . maybe a little too much.

“Smells good,” he says, nodding toward the sizzling pan.

“Yeah, well. You’ll change your mind once you taste it and realize I forgot the salt.”