Page 20

Willow

T he house is dark. Unnervingly still.

I know Rocket came home—saw the headlights in the driveway, heard the front door click sometime after midnight, felt the subtle shift in the air—but I didn’t hear his footsteps after that.

I’ve gotten used to his late hours. The clatter in the kitchen or the low hum of the television on, but tonight, there was none of that.

Nor was there an answer to the text I sent him an hour ago. Are you okay?

I should leave it alone and respect the boundary he’s obviously put in place. Something triggered him earlier. It was almost as if seeing all the women in his life together, doting on his daughter, flustered him.

Or made this more real than it already has been.

I stand in the kitchen, uncertain why I’m not going to bed. Call me weird and reaching, but something about the silence feelswrong, especially after Rocket tore out of here earlier without an explanation .

The travertine tiles are cool beneath my feet as I move through the hall, past the living room and the kitchen.

With a quick glance at Poppy sleeping quietly on the baby monitor in hand, I move down the corridor that leads to the studio and game room.

Somewhere near the end of it, I hear it—a low, repetitive clack . .. clack ... clack.

A pool table? Clack . Has to be a pool table.

I hesitate at the cracked doorway, unsure if I’m about to walk into something I don’t want to see. A drunkfest? Drugs? A woman? A broken man?

My concern outweighs my fear.

I push the door open.

The room glows with a single low-hung pendant light over the green felt. The light is dim and hints at pinball machines on the far side, arcade-style gaming units, and various other man cave items at the edge of the shadows.

But it’s Rocket who holds my attention.

He’s standing with his back to me, pool cue in one hand, shoulders tight, and bare feet planted as he bends over the table. He moves with quick precision, and within seconds the sound of balls smashing together violently echoes in the quiet.

As if on autopilot—or deep in thought—he moves to the far end of the table and collects the balls to rack the shot again. His face is etched in concentration and his lips move as if he’s talking to himself but no sound is coming out.

He lines up the break again. Hits the ball. Hard. And clack fills the room once again.

“Rocket . . .”

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even startle. It’s almost as if he already knew I was here and was just biding his time. Either that or the empty bottle of whatever it is on the table against the wall and the glass beside it are enough of an indicator that he’s numb.

“You probably don’t want to be around me right now,” he finally says, voice gravel smoothed by sandpaper, as he moves back around the table to hit another ball.

“Why?” I ask, drawn into the room and him in a way I’ve never been with someone before.

“Because I’ve drank more than is reasonable.

Because I’m pissed. And because when both of those things happen, I typically like to fuck them out of my system and, Wills .

..”—he tsks and turns toward me for the first time, eyes flashing with a glint of something that borders on danger and desire—“... you’re within reach. ”

My breath catches.

His stare pins me in place. I’m standing in the doorway, but I feel anchored, cornered, like I’m on fire from the inside out.

And I hate the way my body responds. The heat that pulses low in my belly. The goosebumps that skim over my arms. The part of me thatfreezes and wantshim to reach for me.

“What are you upset about?” I finally ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

But I already know. I saw it earlier before he left—the defeat and the hope. And I sure as shit see it now—the fear and the predetermined failure.

“Just am.” His tone’s flat, indifferent. The exact opposite of what the look he gave me says he is.

“You’re full of shit.”

He takes a step toward me, slow and deliberate. “And you’re not?”

I lift my chin. “I’m not the one brooding in the dark with an empty bottle and taking whatever you’ve got going there out on a ball and a stick.”

“No,” he says, circling the table, “but you’re the one who pretends she’s immune to fucking everything.”

“Immune?” I bark out a laugh and challenge. “Define everything .”

He stops at the corner of the table, arms braced, gaze smoldering. “Me.”

My heart stutters.

Immune to him ? Fucking hell. I’ve been standing in the lion’s den each and every day since I’ve been here—never more so than right now—and he thinks I’m unaffected by him?

“You say you’re here to look out for everyone else,” he continues. “So tell me, Willow. Who’s looking out foryou? Who’s going to protect you?”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“From me?” His chuckle is dark. Suggestive. Wrecked. “Sure, you don’t.”

I swallow hard, throat dry. Rocket’s making me feel things I shouldn’t feel. He’s making me want things I have no business wanting. Not now. Not because he’s my boss. Not because he’s clearly been drinking.

“Because I’m drunk. Because I’m pissed. And because when both of those things happen, I typically like to fuck them out of my system and, Wills, you’re within reach.”

Am I attracted to Rocket? Who wouldn’t be? Have I thought about acting on that? No. I simply can’t. It’s not what I’m here for .

But those words, adding to the wickedly sexual vibes in the room right now?

My body wholeheartedly disagrees.

I do the only thing I can to bring us back to where we need to be. To throw cold water on this conversation. “So who’d you go to so you could fuck it out of your system tonight?”

He doesn’t stutter. “That question has no place in this moment, but I’ll answer because you asked.” He leans forward, eyes trained on mine. “No one.”

“And whatis this moment ?” I ask, chills chasing over my skin. “Because I’m not used to men who warn me away, stare at me like they want me, but then talk in circles.”

“What are you used to then? The boy next door? A man with smooth hands, lack of conviction, and emotional maturity?”

James flashes in my mind. A gentle giant. My first love.

And nothing like the edgy, mercurial, and incredibly sexy man in front of me.

“Grow up, Rocket.” Isn’t that what this is all about? Poppy’s presence is forcing him to grow up? And yet everything I’ve seen about him screams grown-ass man. “You don’t get to have an opinion on what I’m used to. You don’t know anything about me.”

His smile is a slow, wicked crawl over his lips.

“I know your hands are trembling, and the pulse in your neck is pounding so hard I can see it.” He closes the space between us in two long strides, his voice low when he next speaks.

“This moment is when I should walk away. When I should go to my bedroom, grab another bottle to drown out the noise, and close the door. When I should pretend I didn’t think about that bikini you wore or the way your laugh got under my skin. ”

I take a step back. He follows.

“But instead,” he murmurs, “I’m wondering what you taste like. If your mouth is just as clever, just as smart, when it’s consumed with mine. When it’s wrapped around me. If you’d still talk back when you’re gasping for—”

His hands land on either side of me, braced against the wall behind my shoulders, seconds before hekisses me.

It’s not soft.

It’s not sweet.

It’s desperate. Punishing.

It’ssuffering, like holding a grenade with the pin already pulled .

I gasp into it, but I don’t pull back. Not right away. Because he’s fire and fury and grief, and his mouth on mine cracks something wide open in me that I’m too scared to admit to. Too scared to acknowledge.

His hand grazes my waist. The chills chase . My fingers fist in his shirt. The ache burns . We break apart for a breath—my hands against his chest and his knee between my thighs—and that’s all it takes.

Reality slams into us.

He jerks back.

I stagger forward and away from him.

For a long beat, neither of us says a word. Our breathing is ragged. My lips tingle. My chest heaves like I’ve just sprinted a mile.

But his eyes hold mine. Those pools of green are pure torment that don’t look away.

I bolt.

Embarrassed. Ashamed. Turned on. Desperate for more when more is a mistake.

I run to my room, shut the door behind me, and slide down the smooth wood until my ass is on the floor. My chest heaves, and I press my hand over my mouth like I’m not sure if I want to remember his taste or scratch it out.

Who am I kidding? I don’t think I’ll ever forget his taste again. Whiskey mixed with hunger. Desire mixed with desperation. Need edged with a violent want. Wrong mixed with—

I hear Poppy stir on the monitor and look at my phone to see her sigh softly before rolling on to her side.

I push myself up.

What thehelldid I just do? What did I just risk for her?

I just kissed her dad. My boss. I just crossed a line I can’t take back.

I scrub a hand over my face knowing, if given the chance again, I’d probably do the same.

How can one man—onemoment—make me feel more alive than I’ve felt since James died?

Maybe even more than when James was alive?

What fire did Rocket just stoke with that kiss?

And why—fucking hell, why —do I fear that I don’t want it put out?