Page 17

I jump at the sound of Rocket’s voice. When I turn, he’s standing on the far side of the couch. Barefoot. Hair tousled. A sexy smile tilting up one corner of his mouth.

“We have to stop meeting like this. My heart isn’t going to handle living here,” I tease.

His grin widens as he steps forward. “The door was open. I figured you didn’t mind the company.”

“It’s your house. You don’t need to apologize for anything.” I shift to collect my laptop and phone and—

“No. You’re fine.” He digs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocks on his heels. “I looked out the window and ... you looked happy is all.”

“I am, I guess.”

“You guess?” He chuckles.

“Yeah, I mean. I just talked to my mom, and she always makes me feel good about everything.”

He raises a brow and slowly lowers himself onto the couch opposite me, stretching out his legs with a groan.

“You close with her?”

“Yeah. With both of my parents.”

He grunts like he doesn’t know what that feels like. I study him for a moment, the flicker of emotion behind those eyes that always seem too guarded for their own good.

“I take it by that response that you’re not with yours?” I lead and wonder if he’ll shed some light on the few things he’s said over the past week I’ve been here.

He sighs. “There’s a reason I loved music. It allowed me to drown everything out when it got too loud at home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shrugs. “I could say I turned out just fine, but from where you stand, I’m sure you think that’s debatable.”

“That’s a setup if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Not a setup when it’s the truth.”

“I’m still not taking the bait,” I say playfully.

“No smart-mouthed comment? No underhanded slight?”

I slide a glance his way and meet him smile for smile. “I’m working on taming them. ”

“No. Never. And especially not on my account.” He crosses an ankle onto his other knee. “No one ever had fun walking the straight and narrow.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, although I do have a feeling my knack for both of those things might be why I got laid off from my teaching job.”

“Teaching job?” He sounds surprised.

“Yes. Before this.” I explain about being a nanny in college. About my teaching position being eliminated due to budgetary cuts. About the opportunity to help Poppy coming along at the perfect time.

“I’m sorry for you, but their loss is my gain.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly and force myself to look out over the valley than where I want to—at him.

“So, Miss Willow Adams, tell me about you.”

I start to laugh, thinking that he’s joking. Why would a man of his stature—one who’s met kings and presidents—be interested in anything about me? But when I give into the pull, into his silence, and look his way, he’s staring intently at me and waiting patiently.

I’m not used to this side of him, and for some reason I hesitate. Maybe I know that letting him in could be a huge mistake for me.

“Clearly, you come from a good home, have a career path that you love, but what makes you, you? What is it that you desire?”

I quirk my eyebrows. “Desire is a loaded word.”

“So was that bathing suit you had on earlier,” he says without missing a beat, “but I managed to cope just fine, now didn’t I?”

My eyes flash over to his and hold.

Oh .

He noticed .

And now that I know he did, I can’t help but wonder if that’s why I picked it this morning. Why I reached past two perfectly respectable one-pieces and chose the one that tied behind my neck and dipped low in the back. The one that made me feel a little more ... seen.

He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.

“You’re trouble,” I finally murmur, folding my arms.

“Perhaps.” He grins. “ Definitely . It makes life more interesting.”

I laugh, despite myself. The sound floats between us as he puts his elbow on the back of the couch and rests his head on his hand. “You didn’t answer me,” he says. “What makes you,you? ”

I shift, playing with the hem of my shirt. “I guess I’m still figuring that out.”

“No rehearsed speech about how you’ve always wanted to work with kids and make the world a better place?”

“Oh, I definitely want to make the world better. But not in a ‘Miss America, here’s my platform’ way. I just want to leave people better than I found them. Especially the small ones.”

“That’s a damn good answer.” And just when I think he’s going to leave it there, he asks, “What interested you about teaching? And why the special needs field?”

“My mom was a teacher. It’s in the blood.

” I toggle my head from side to side. “And I had a cousin who was special needs. I always hated how outside of our family, when we were at school, she needed a little more of everything than everybody else, and her mom had to fight so damn hard to get it. Not everyone is comfortable around kids who need more—I am. So I figured why not specialize in that field.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really. More just being a good human.” I smile. “God, that sounds cheesy—”

“But I like it. It feels right when you say it.”

“So why the laptop? Should I worry you’re searching for teaching openings now because you’re sick of your current boss? Don’t have me panicking, Wills.”

“No. God. I just ... I started my master’s a while back.” Ran ... out of money. Time. Bandwidth. “And now I’m thinking of starting back up during this lull, so to speak.”

“You’re telling me I’m a lull?” He barks out a laugh. “Can’t say that word has ever been used to describe me before.”

“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

He waves a hand to stop me from explaining. “Master’s in what?”

“Special education.”

“Quit being so impressive,” he groans. “You’re making me look bad.”

“How many platinum records do you have on the wall in your office? Please.” I snort. “What about you?”

He blinks. “What about me?”

“Who areyou? Not Rocket—the rock star—but more the guy underneath all of that. The guy the world doesn’t always see. What makesyoutick? ”

He goes still. Not defensive. Just caught off guard.

And for the first time since I met him, I think I might have asked a question he doesn’t already have a practiced answer for.

“You can read about me anywhere on any site on the internet. I can’t promise it’s all accurate but it’s true enough.”

“You’re right. I can look you up and I have.” I have no shame in admitting it, and by the lift of his eyebrows, I think he is surprised by the admission.

“But you want more.”

“I want more. I want the non-media trained answers.”

“I assure you media training doesn’t work on me. What you see is what you get.”

“Noted, but appease me.”

He sighs. “Willow.”

“Call me a greedy bitch.”

He chortles out a laugh. “That’s the last thing I’d call you, but we’ll go with it.”

“Good. Tell me about Gavin.”

“I’d rather talk about Rocket,” he deflects.

“Noted. But Gavin is the person here without the media or the world watching his every move. Gavin is the man trying to figure out why he’s curious about Poppy but keeps her at arm’s length. Gavin is the man I see glimpses of.” I shrug.

“Gavin is a man I don’t know anymore.”

“Don’t tell me you had a secret life as a choir boy.”

His mouth twitches. “Worse. I wanted to be an astronaut.”

“No way.” I definitely wasn’t expecting that answer.

“I had this cheap, plastic helmet I wouldn’t take off for months.

A Halloween costume discard I saw in a thrift store window when we were walking by.

I had to beg my mom for it. Her boyfriend at the time ended up buying it for me to shut me up and occupy me.

Man, I loved that thing. I ate cereal in it. Slept in it. Called myself Rocket Man.”

“Is that where the name came from?”

“Yup. Stuck in fifth grade after I made a presentation about space exploration. One of my drawings I did—I used to draw all the time—was mixed in the papers I brought to school. It was an image of my helmet with Rocket Man written in block letters. Some great work, if I say so myself.” His chuckle is bittersweet.

“Anyway, the class prick—some asshole who needed a lot of fucking love in life—picked up the drawing and played keep away from me with it. Held it up for the class and called me Rocket to get a laugh. It stuck.”

“I bet that brat straightens his shoulders every time he sees you all the million places people see you, and brags to others that he’s the one who made your name for you.”

“Probably.” He runs a hand through his hair and eases back in his seat, more comfortable now. Maybe because he doesn’t think I’m going to grill him on where his head’s at with Poppy.

“So, what happened to being an astronaut?”

“First time I went on a roller coaster, one of those upside down ones ... I learned I’m not a big fan of being upside down. Ended that dream real quick.”

“Valid point,” I say. “So you became a rock star instead. Fair trade.”

He barks out a laugh. “Can’t complain at how life worked out for me.”

“Neither would I. It must have been a wild ride.”

“Is. Was. Continues to be.” He scrubs a hand over his face and a mischievous smile stays in his wake. “The wildest of all rides.”

“Even better than going upside down?”

“Way better.” He looks out toward the pool and his expression changes like he’s reliving some of the greatest hits of his career. “If you would’ve asked little Gavin Caldwell if he could’ve ever dreamed this would be his house and his life, he would’ve told you that you were crazy.”

He appreciates it.

I’m not sure why that notion strikes me so poignantly in the moment, but it does. Here is a superstar who I thought was so spoiled and selfish, who has done this for so long that he took it all for granted, and yet here is Gavin , telling me otherwise.

But just like I’m having a hard time reconciling Rocket with Gavin, I’m also struggling to see this man before me and not understand his reluctance to acknowledge Poppy.

Hell, might as well bring that up while we’re at it ...

“You haven’t been around much,” I say quietly.

He tenses. “Meaning?”

“Nothing. Just . . .”

“I have a feeling there is nothing you say without intention.”

I chuckle because he’s right. I raise my hand to make light of it. “Guilty as charged.”

He nods. “You’ll find I’m normally straight to the point. ”

“Who’s also my boss.”

“Semantics.” He shrugs and smirks. “Speak your mind, Willow.”

“Well, the first night I was here, you escaped to get drunk. Just about everything about Poppy was a shock to your system—her being alive, her being here, you name it. Understandably. It’s been almost a week and now you’re just escaping to go to the store and random places for no reason at all.”

“Because learning one has a child should be a seamless transition, right?”

“No. That’s not what I meant. It’s just ...” She’s a good little girl. I see in your eyes you know that, you believe that, and yet you keep your distance. I don’t understand how you can even resist her.

He watches me for a beat, then says, “I’m still here.” And those three words could mean so many things.

You’re questioning me, and I’m still here.

I found out I have a daughter, and I’m still here.

I scrunch my nose up because as frustrated as I am at him and what appears to be a lack of progress, those three words say more than I thought they did moments ago.

I’m still here.

“I stand corrected,” I say, barely audible.

“I don’t want you to stand corrected,” he says, voice flat but irritated. “I want you to understand where I am. Who I am. A guy who deals in facts. Who needs concretes. Who ... just had his world rocked and is trying to process it all.”

I meet his eyes—calm, certain—and challenge him when I have no business challenging him.

“Her being here? Herreaction when she looks at you, and you feel that punch in your gut, or have the oxygen sucked out of your lungs—you know? The times you decide you need to bolt? That’s your proof, Rocket.

That’s enough for you to know you need her as much as she needs you.

You might not know it yet. You might not acknowledge it yet.

But it’s there, and you fucking know it. ”

He sighs and gets up, moving toward the edge of the patio. The sun peeking through the slats of the patio cover outlines his frame—broad shoulders, long legs, hands planted on his hips as he stares out at the view beyond.

He paints a striking picture. Broken. Beautiful. Unmoored.

“You pay me to be her advocate,” I say. “To give her the best. To look out for her. You being a part of her life is looking out for her.”

He hangs his head and rolls his shoulders. “Look,” he says without turning to look my way. “I didn’t grow up with a dad. I had a mom who worked double shifts and who had a rotating door of boyfriends, all of which taught me exactly who I never wanted to be.”

I don’t say anything.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “I don’t know how to be what she needs. I hope I can get my shit together and figure it out. But frankly, in the meantime, in between time, if I stop moving, I might start thinking. And if I start thinking, I’ll realize how badly I could fuck this up.”

“Said every parent ever in one way or another,” I murmur and draw a look my way.

His eyes hold such a depth of emotion, but his expression is unreadable.

“I have everything I’ve ever wanted. Money.

Fame. Notoriety. I never have to worry about anything again.

And then all of a sudden, the one thing I never wanted, the one thing my childhood fucked me up and told me I never wanted, shows up on my doorstep. I had no fucking choice in the matter.”

And this time, when he looks back to the view beyond, I don’t press any further.

I gather my things and leave him be.

I’ve pushed enough.

I was hoping he’d push back more. I was hoping he’d ask me how . Because it’s only in fighting that you can sometimes see your true self and face your worst fears.

And it seems that Poppy is that to Rocket.