Page 14

Rocket

I t’s been three days.

Three days of tiptoeing around my own house like it belongs to someone else.

Three days of waking up late and staying up later.

Of pretending I’m answering emails I haven’t even opened so that I have a reason to stay behind my office’s closed door.

Then there’s my blasting music to avoid the sound of muted giggles and hearing enthusiastic praise.

Because yes, I need to come to terms with the inevitable but fuck, man, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I’m far less emotionally evolved.

I bang on the keyboards to feel. I wail into a mic to get that shit off my chest. I run errands that I don’t need to run to escape my own fucking house.

Three days of her .

Willow.

The nanny.

The nanny who shocked me with her thin tank top and assessing eyes. And yes, it was a dick move to flirt with her the other night. But doesn’t it prove I’m unfit to be a father if I’m struggling to get her out of my mind?

Yes. That makes me a fucking douchebag. It says I’m still thinking with my cock and not enough with my brain. Which seems to be what got me into this mess in the first place.

My brothers have checked in, but I haven’t told them I’m ignoring the bigger picture— I have a daughter— and considering my pleasure over the little girl’s needs.

My phone alerts a text. I hang my head and chuckle in exasperation. No doubt it’s the guys checking in. Again . And razzing the fuck out of me. Again .

Vince: How’s the hot nanny?

Me: For the tenth time. She’s not my type. Not even close.

Gizmo: Doth protest too much.

Me: Since when the fuck do you quote Shakespeare?

Gizmo: Always full of surprises over here.

Hawkin: We need a pic of her. Or a last name so we can look her up on social media. (This is Quinlan. You’re holding out on us!)

I chuckle. Of course, Hawkin’s wife would accost his phone since I’m not giving her shit.

Hawkin: And it’s okay to like the nanny. You have to blow off some steam somehow, right?

Gizmo: Blow being the operative word there.

Vince: Ah. That’s why he didn’t answer my call. He was otherwise occupied.

Me: Was on a run. Too hard to talk and run.

Hawkin: Already giving excuses in case he answers and is out of breath.

Me: You guys are assholes.

Gizmo: Yes. Yes, we are.

I shake my head. All this shit and the irony is that Willow isn’t even my type. Not even close. She’s independent and grounded and far too sharp for a guy like me. I like chaos. Attitude. A little edge. Not much push-back.

She walks around here in cutoffs and messy braids and makes juice boxes look like tactical gear. She’s sunshine and sass and soft curves wrapped in no-nonsense.

And other than in the kitchen that first night, she’s a goddamn defensive armor when it comes to Poppy. Almost like she’s protecting her from me like any intelligent, assuming person in their right mind would do.

Or maybe she’s giving me time to adjust.

Vince: You’re not answering. That means you’re pissed.

Me: Not pissed.

Hawkin: You good, man?

Me: That’s debatable? I don’t fucking know? All of the above?

All I know is I’m distracted with music, with working out, with thoughts of her. Wondering what her hair looks like when it’s out of that braid or what her voice would sound like moaning my name.

Juvenile shit. Bait and switch shit so I can escape reality. But valid thoughts none the fuck less.

Vince: When can we meet Poppy?

Gizmo: And the hot nanny?

Me: Thinking one big scary man is enough for her to deal with right now.

Hawkin: Fair.

Gizmo: So we’ll stay away for now. We’ll hold off the wives as long as we can.

Vince: Might need reinforcements for that.

Hawkin: We’re here if you need us.

The boys went quiet after Hawkin’s comment so I spent an hour in the home gym, working out to escape the strangers in my house but thinking about them the whole goddamn time.

I drop the barbell to the mat and stretch out my arms after a brutal set. Sweat drips down my chest as music pounds through the built-in speakers, but I welcome the burn, the pain, and everything in between.

Movement outside the window catches my eye.

The far corner of the front yard grass. A slip and slide with water spraying up from its pontoon-like sides, casting rainbows across the lawn.

I step to the window and crane my neck.

And that’s what I get for looking at my own front lawn. For spying on the nanny. For caring what the fuck is going on.

Willow’s out there. Obviously, but it’s the black two-piece she’s wearing—modest but still giving me enough to look at—that’s caught my attention, and the laugh I can see her emitting but can’t hear.

Then there’s Poppy in a sunshine-yellow bathing suit with pigtails high and a smile like I’ve yet to see from her.

Something twinges in me at the sight of it but I shake it away.

And then without thinking, I feel compelled to move toward a window with a better view.

They’re running through the sprinklers barefoot. Poppy squeals in delight, flapping her hands and spinning in circles before flopping on the slip and slide. She only goes a few feet, but by her ecstatic reaction, she doesn’t care.

Willow runs over to her, drops to her ass, and slides a few feet until she bumps into Poppy.

There’s another round of giggles as Poppy tries to get up and then slips and falls again. It looks like they sign something back and forth to each other before Willow gets up, takes Poppy by the ankles, and then pulls her down the slide before sling-shotting her down the rest of the plastic.

When Poppy reaches the end and rolls with dramatic flair onto the grass, Willow throws her hands up in the air and jumps up and down, clearly her biggest cheerleader.

My eyes are drawn back to Willow now. How can they not be?

Her hair is still in that damn braid, but it’s loosened so strands have fallen out and are stuck to her shoulders.

Her body is compact, like a gymnast’s, but with subtle curves.

But it’s her face that owns me. Her animated expressions and the way they emote everything she’s feeling.

Then there are her eyes—dark brown, framed with thick lashes. They always seem full of life, like she’s never looked at the world through a jaded lens. Why is that so intriguing to me?

“It’s because you’re fucked up, Rock.”

“Thanks, Vince. Appreciate the love,” I joke.

“What can I say? Truth and love often go hand in hand.” He shrugs through the FaceTime connection. “You’re thinking about the nanny because you’re not used to women who seemingly have it all together from the get-go.”

“Who said I was thinking about the nanny?”

“Well, you and I are trying to figure out the lyrics but you keep looking out the window of your office, and it’s not the gardener you’re checking out. I know that for a fucking fact.”

“Maybe it’s at Poppy.”

He snorts and then barks out a laugh. “Not with that look on your face it’s not. Look, it’s okay to be curious about her. ”

“Why are we talking about her again?” I ask and glance over to where they are playing to make sure they can’t hear me. “You guys are more obsessed with her...” than I am .

“Because you’re used to chicks with daddy issues—case in point, Poppy’s mom. Women who use sexuality as a way to gain or trap something. Females who don’t care if they’re used simply so they can gain clout for sleeping with you. But Willow seems like none of that.”

I scrub a hand through my hair and sigh. “She wouldn’t be my daughter’s nanny if she were.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said that.”

“Said what?”

His smile is quiet, but his eyes are knowing as he gives me a nod and lets me digest that tidbit. “ My daughter .”

My conversation with Vince yesterday comes back to me as my attention veers over to Poppy.

Back to her playful spinning that has her starting to wobble and weave as she stops, but the world keeps rotating around her.

She staggers as she holds her hands out for imaginary walls to hold her up as the dizziness subsides.

She is all smiles and laughter and innocence. She’s lit up, completely unrecognizable from the quiet, cautious girl who arrived three days ago.

What was her life like before...everything? Did she have a yard to play in? Grass under her feet and sunshine on her skin?

The Olivia I knew briefly was a decent person who I’d assume took her daughter for walks in the park and cuddled her every night...but that’s the thing, it’s supposition. I just don’t know.

The gut punch that thought evokes is real and one I don’t think will ever truly be answered.

Willow picks Poppy up from her dizzy stagger and pulls her in for a hug. They are unsteady and fall back onto the grass holding each other tightly, all while Willow lavishes her with affection.

And I’m . . . I’m jealous.

Of a three-year-old.

Of her laughter.

Of Willow being the one who gets to see it and bring it out in her.

I scrub a hand down my face. Don’t go out there, Rock. Leave them be .

But my feet move before my brain agrees.

By the time I push open the front door and step outside, the music from the portable speaker they brought outside shifts into a pop summer track with a catchy beat. Noticeably not rock, which strangely has a smile tugging on my lips.

Willow is at the hose spigot, turning the water off and the arches of water spraying on the plastic slide are slowly growing smaller and smaller. Poppy is crouched near a bed of flowers, squatting and sticking her nose in them and sniffing them audibly.

Willow turns just as I reach the edge of the patio.

Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me. I’m shirtless from my workout. She’s nearly dripping. We both freeze like we’ve caught each other naked when our state of undress is so very normal.

But nothing about this feels normal.

Her eyes skim down my chest—quick, involuntary—and then snap back to my face with a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.

I clear my throat. “Didn’t know you were throwing a rave out here.”

“We were hydrating the grass,” she says.