Page 95 of Sweet Distraction

“I like bland food.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.” He grins and bumps my hip with his.

Poppy’s bunny is seated beside her like it’s playing too. She glances up briefly as we laugh, then goes right back to her plastic figures.

She looks so . . . settled. Content.

“How’d the lyrics go?” I ask.

“Don’t ask.” He sighs and takes a bite of the carrot stick in his hand. The snap of it is so loud Poppy laughs. “It’s a frustrating process.”

“I can’t imagine. I’m not creative in the least.”

“No, but you’re smart. Like that master’s you’re going to get.”

“Pulled that one from thin air,” I say around a chuckle.

“You talked about it in your sleep.”

“What? I did?” I glance over to Poppy and then back.

Rocket nods. “Yep. You did. It was a fascinating conversation but then left me wondering if I uh . . . did my job properly since you were still coherent.”

I stand there, hands at my sides, cheeks flushing, and stare at him like he’s crazy. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“That and you let me know I need to eat more vegetables.” He snaps the carrot again when he bites it.

I smile. “That tracks.”

He passes by again and this time brushes a knuckle down the curve of my arm. It’s the gentlest touch, but it echoes long after he moves past me.

“I can’t believe the tour is closing in,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I feel like we’re just settling into this routine.”

His eyes flick to mine, and I swear there’s something in them—regret maybe. Or dismay. He doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s always a mix of excitement and dread before we leave. We’ve done it enough times over the years that we don’t think twice about it. It just hits differently this time around with”—he glances toward Poppy and then back to me—“everything.”

“Understandably.”

Instead, he leans against the counter and studies me for a beat. I hold his stare, curious about what’s going on behind those eyes of his.

“I think she said Daddy last night,” he whispers.

My head whips toward him so fast I nearly drop the spatula. “She did?” I don’t know what’s more overwhelming, the fact that she spoke or the word she chose to speak. “What?” I glance Poppy’s way. Her head’s still down, seemingly oblivious to this conversation. “How?”

He nods slowly, his expression stoic but the corners of his mouth turning up. “We were playing on the piano together—she’s wicked talented, by the way. A pop star in the making, right Popstar?”

Poppy doesn’t look up, just waves him off with one hand like please, I’m playing.

Rocket grins, moves toward her, and kisses the top of her head. He moves back to stand beside me, resting his hips against the island so that his back is to her. He keeps his voice low when he talks. “Anyway, I absently said that “Daddy’s got you.” I didn’t make it weird. Just said it. She didn’t flinch. She just looked up to meet my eyes to make sure I said what she thought I said before nodding and going back to the song we were making.”

I wish I could’ve seen that moment. Been a fly on the wall in the room with them, but I also kind of love that it’s something that belongs only to them.

“There was an epic meltdown shortly after,” he adds and chuckles, pulling the plates out of the cupboard. “She got tired, probably overstimulated from the change in routine. It took me a while to figure out what to do, but I did. Got her calmed by tracing my tattoos—hence the lack of a shirt.” He flashes me a suggestive grin. “And just as she was falling asleep, I swear I heard her whisper it.”

My chest tightens. “Really?”