Page 12

I reach for my phone and fumble it in a desperate attempt to hang up on Lily.

“Willow? You still there—”

I successfully end the call and shut her up.

But now I’m faced with something way more embarrassing. Way more...real.

Did he hear me say that? Fuckably-HOT ?

Dying now would be a much better option than meeting his eyes.

I give myself a few seconds, but when I finally look up again, Rocket’s watching me with an unreadable expression. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. At least there’s that .

If there were a hole to crawl into right now, I’d be the first one to dive headfirst into it.

“Hi. Um. Hi ,” I say. My voice just screeched like nails on a chalkboard.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to interrupt .

” He moves past me toward the fridge. My eyes try not to track the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips.

Or the trail of ink running down his ribs.

Or the fact that he smells like clean soap and exhaustion and something stupidly masculine.

This is not helping.

“Didn’t catch much,” he says absently.

I nod too fast. “Cool. Yep. That’s great.” I want to die.

Don’t look at him, Willow. Don’t...for the love of God that’s much easier to think than do because the man is...there. Right before me.

Looking like that.

Smelling like that.

He just oozes sex appeal even when he’s not trying to.

“Everything good?” he asks as he empties the last sip of his drink and sets the glass down on the counter.

“I thought you said you’d be gone until the morning.” Why is my voice shaky?

“That was the plan.” He opens the fridge. Shuts it. Moves to the pantry. “Plans change. ”

“Was this some kind of test?” I blurt out.

He stops and glances over his shoulder. “Test?”

“To see if I was going to rip you off? To see if I’m trustworthy?” I shrug. To see if I’m going to admit to my bestie how fuckable you are.

“Nah. Everything I have here is replaceable.” His eyes hold mine. The silence stretches. He studies me, eyes wandering down to my tank and shorts.

Shit . I didn’t put a bra on because I didn’t expect to see him.

And yes, of course, right as rain, I can feel my nipples hardening and no doubt pressing against the thin fabric of my tank top.

Just awesome.

Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe...who the fuck am I kidding? He notices, all right. I see the bob of his Adam’s apple. The tightening of his jaw. The twitching of his fingers.

“You’ll know if I’m testing you, Willow.”

The way he says my name. It’s the first time I actually think he has, and it has chills running over my skin.

This is wrong.

All kinds of wrong.

I have never, ever thought one of the dads I’ve worked for in the past have been hot. I never, ever even remotely considered the thoughts I am thinking in the odd instances I found myself completely alone with the father before.

But I’m thinking them now.

“Did you need something?” he asks, eyebrows narrowing. The food it seems we both came in here for completely forgotten for the moment.

My eyes dart down to his abs. To the low-slung waistband of his sweats.

Big mistake. Huge .

“I was out here to look at—we need to talk about...toddler-proofing.”

He chuckles, turns to rest his ass on the counter, and crosses his arms over his chest. Of course his biceps flex with the motion and make his tattoos dance.

“Toddler-proofing?” He lifts an eyebrow. “That’s what you want to choose to talk about right now?”

I swallow forcibly and hope to God he can’t hear it like I just did. “Yes. Proofing.” It’s better than letting my eyes wander and my thoughts drift.

He angles his head to the side, and I can’t tell if this whole situation is an act. If he’s so used to toying with fans and groupies that he knows how to use his looks to make someone else uncomfortable. Or win them over .

And I’m falling right into that trap.

“Aren’t you ever off the clock?” he asks.

“Does that mean you’d like to step in and take over with her?” I ask. I challenge. A simple comment to knock me back into Willow-the-Nanny-ville and out of Rocket-is-a-rock-god-ville.

And the clenching of his jaw gives me the answer.

No. He’s not ready.

No. The time spent writing music—if that’s even where he went—didn’t suddenly make him realize that he has a daughter and he needs to figure his shit out.

Emotionally constipated. Yes, that still fits.

“Ever heard of the word no?” he asks, not answering the question.

“Meaning?” I’m confused.

“Instead of toddler-proofing. The word no should work.”

That comment gives me all I need to know about his experience with kids.

“Of course.” My smile is taunting. “Works perfectly. Just say it, and a three-year-old falls right in line.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Do what you need to do,” he says with an indifferent flicker of his fingers.

“Thank you. I was...if I was looking around, I just didn’t want you to think I was snooping or anything.”

“How would I know that if I weren’t here?” he asks, turns back to the open pantry, and starts picking items up and then putting them back down.

“Cameras. Security measures that people like you probably have.”

“People like me?”

“Famous. Someone people stalk. I don’t know.”

He wobbles his head back and forth like he’s contemplating my description of him.

Clearly he’s okay with it because he continues on arguing.

“There are only cameras on the outside,” he says.

“Never had a need for them inside before.” He moves toward me, stopping right in front of me.

I have to angle my head up to meet his eyes.

I pray the sudden thumping of my pulse isn’t noticeable in my neck because I feel like it’s visible from a mile away. “Do I need to worry about you, Willow?”

His voice. The timbre. Those words. The seductive quality to them is undeniable. I want to step away from him, to gain some space, and yet he’s right in front of me—so close that I can see the flecks of gold on the center of his irises.

“No. Of course not.”

“Why do I make you nervous?” he asks as he reaches out and puts his hand on the counter beside me.

“You—uh—don’t. Just new places, new faces. They make me jumpy.”

The subtle nod says he’s not buying the lie I’m selling. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs and leans in even closer.

“Thanks.” The syllable is breathless. Embarrassing. But he’s so close, and all I can smell is him as he fills my entire line of sight.

“Willow?”

“Hmm?”

He leans a little closer and whispers. “I need to get in the drawer.”

“Oh. Yes.” I jump out of the way and in the course of doing so, run smack dab into the front of him so we’re pressed together chest to knees.

I jolt back the other way so that my ass hits against the drawer he just opened and slams it shut again.

It’s a series of mortifying moments of my awkward ineptitude, and while my cheeks are burning red, Rocket chuckles mercilessly.

Almost as if this is the comedic relief he didn’t know he needed after the day’s events.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he continues to laugh, moves to the fridge, and opens the freezer door. “But that was funny as fuck.”

“Hilarious.” I roll my eyes. “For the record, it’s not going to work with me and this situation.”

He looks over his shoulder, and his brows furrow. “What isn’t?”

“What you’ve fallen back on your whole life.”

“You’ve lost me.” He pulls out two pints of ice cream from the freezer and sets them down on the counter between us.

“Your good looks and sweet-talking mouth.”

He chuckles and the sound is pure danger. “Can’t say I’ve even been accused of it being sweet. Dirty for sure, but definitely not sweet.”

I stare at him, my body reacting to his words and the innuendo. And falling right into what I just accused him of doing. “See? Right there? You’re doing it.”

His grin is lightning-quick. Of course he knows he’s doing it. Why does it feel like I’ve just laid down a challenge he’ll gladly accept ?

“Relax. People misconstrue me being nice with flirting. They’re two completely different things.”

Every part of me wants to walk through that door he just opened and ask what the difference is in his eyes. The other part of me needs to save my sanity because, no doubt, his answer will replay in my head over and over as I stare at the ceiling and try to fall asleep tonight.

But his comment repeats in my head as he slides the two spoons from the drawer and places them beside the pints of ice cream.

“Ice cream always makes everything better, doesn’t it?” He lifts his chin toward the pints.

“Who said I needed to make anything better?”

He levels me with a gaze and a smirk. “Your silence did.” He taps the tops of both pints—Rocky Road and salted caramel—and lifts his brows at me. “How often do you do this?”

“Which part of it?”

“Pick up your life at a moment’s notice to go take care of someone else’s kid?”

“I haven’t. Not since I was in college.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a teacher. I teach.” Good one, Willow. “I was laid off due to budgetary cuts and knew a CPS employee who had an immediate need for someone with experience. I needed a job. They needed help with Poppy. So here I am.”

“So you’re an experienced nanny who’s out of experience.”

“Are you questioning my qualifications?” I ask.

“Far from it. Just curious.”

“I’m more than qualified.”

He raises his hands. “Never questioned if you were, Wills.”

It takes me a second to hear the nickname. To process that he’s calling me it. To realize I like it when I don’t want to like it. “It’s Willow.”

He chews his bottom lip and nods. “So which flavor, Wills?”

I eye him dubiously, but the sound of my stomach growling breaks through the silence and has a grin crawling over his lips. He pushes the two flavors toward me.

“C’mon. Don’t be shy. Break ice cream with me,” he jokes. The man goes from seductive to intimidating to welcoming so fast that it’s hard to keep up.