Page 21

Willow

A voiding Rocket turns out to be easier than I expected.

At least at first.

I wake up early. I’m dead tired—sleep was hard to come by for obvious reasons—but I figure if I get up early and am occupied with Poppy by the time he gets to us, that will make both our lives easier.

And a lot harder for him to talk to me. Alone.

Then again, will he? Or will he just pass it off as no big deal since he’s probably used to women willing to do anything for his attention?

Luckily for me, Poppy’s in a great mood. The sounds she makes to communicate—muted grunts, quiet sighs, emphatic assent—are more frequent now. Louder. Insistent. The therapist thinks she’ll be talking sooner rather than later but emphasized there is no “expected” timeframe.

But it feels like she is. Like she wants to. Sure the nightmares still come, but there’s more space between them than there was before.

And last night there were none .

So Poppy hums to herself as she eats breakfast. I hold a one-way conversation with her that’s responded to with more giggles than grunts.

We take our routine morning walk through the neighborhood where I point out colors and flowers and insects we see on the way.

When we get back, we practice our alphabet and sight words.

We stack magnetic tiles until they collapse like tiny neon skyscrapers.

All while I make every effort to avoid the hallway to his studio and keep clear of every corner of the house he might be in.

If I hear his footsteps, I go the other way. Every time I catch a glimpse of his silhouette down the hall, I duck into a room and stay there. But avoiding him doesn’t stop my stomach from fluttering or from my pulse racing like it’s being chased.

I need to get out more. If there’s one thing the infatuation with the kiss has taught me is that I’m narrowing my world too much. I need to step away from the house so that Poppy doesn’t consume my entire world ... nor thoughts of Rocket and his kissable lips.

So I make a plan.A schedule for me. A new routine for Poppy with built-in quiet time, more time at the park, library days, music therapy appointments—space.

And a note.

I leave it on the counter in the kitchen like I’m dropping off an invoice.

Rocket,

Now that Poppy has more of a routine down, I’d like to adjust my hours and take off two evenings each week.

I’ve written out Poppy’s modified routine and mealtimes. She’ll be asleep most nights by seven. I’m giving you notice in case you need to arrange for someone else to come in and care for her, either a babysitter or one of the guys’ wives, if you’re unable to watch her.

Thank you,

Willow

Clinical. Professional. Safe. And options for him if he chooses not to watch her himself.

But all this—a new schedule and a posted letter—doesn’t save me from what I’ve been avoiding all day.

Knock. Knock.

Dread drops in my stomach at the sound because there’s only one person it could be.

I glance over to where Poppy is curled up in her favorite chair by the window. She has a dozen or so picture books on her lap and around her as she goes through one after another and “reads” to them.

“Willow?” Rocket’s voice sounds rough. Tired. Frayed around the edges like a guitar string about to snap. “I know it’s late, but do you have a minute?”

I stare at the knob. At the place my hand wants to reach but doesn’t.Can’t.

“If this is about the schedule I left on the counter,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, “we can talk about it in the morning.”

“Schedule? Not sure what you’re talking about, so no, it’s not.”

Shit.

I rest my forehead against the door and draw in a fortifying breath. It’s amazing how I’ve managed to keep myself so busy all day—crafts, playing, music, mindless chores—but just the sound of his voice on the other side of this door brings the feelings from last night crashing back.

“It’s about last night,” he says.

Oof.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There is,” he says. “Come on. Open up.”

Can he hear my heart pounding like I can?

“Don’t worry about it,” I say as casually as I can, aware that Poppy is within earshot. “You were drunk. Overwhelmed. I just happened to be there. Like you said, you like to F whatever it is out of your system, and I was ... within reach.”

There’s a rustle. A muffled curse. What sounds like a long, ragged breath through clenched teeth.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did.” I pause and state what has bugged me all day. “And you weren’t lying, were you?”

Silence for a beat. “It’d had been a long night. I was blowing off steam in the privacy of my own home. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, Wills. That’s all.”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t give me a second thought.”

“Exactly.”

The admission hits way harder than I had anticipated.

Not because I didn’t expect something indifferent—he’s a rock star, after all, no doubt a master of detachment if his night with Olivia is any indication—but because part of me hoped the kiss wasn’t simply because I wasa body in the blast radius.

And ego wise, those words are a pretty brutal blow to my self-esteem.

But I didn’t walk away knowing all of that before I even stepped foot in that room and that’s on me.

“This conversation would be so much easier if I could see you,” he says.

I hesitate for a beat and then open the door.

He’s standing there in joggers, a black tee, and barefoot again. His hair is messy and face is unshaven. He looks like he’s been wrestling with things he doesn’t know how to say.

That makes me feel a little better. At least I’m not the only one grappling with how to speak about what happened.

And at least he’s addressing it when I chose to avoid him all day, so there’s that.

But for fuck’s sake, the moment our eyes meet, I relive it all over again. The treacherous heat. The bone-melting kiss. The undeniable tension.

The oh fuck that followed right after.

“Hi,” he says, eyebrows lifting and then a sheepish, lopsided smile.

Jesus . Why does he have to be so attractive?

I glance over to where Poppy is still “reading” to make sure she’s okay and then back to him.

“It’s open. You see me. What more needs to be said?” I ask stoically.

“Look. I screwed up. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’ve been messed up since you got here, and I took advantage of the situation simply because you know that. I apologize, and I’m sure I’ll apologize again. I don’t want this to affect things,” he says gruffly.

“Because you screwed up or because you’re afraid I’ll leave, and you’ll have to figure out Poppy all on your own?”

“Truth?”

“Preferably.”

“ Both .”

I exhale and nod. “What if I tell you that leaving is still on the table?”

“What?” His voice cracks in disbelief.

I shrug. “You heard me. When are we going to talk about the hard stuff? When does Poppy become the priority rather than every other thing in your orbit?”

He blanches at the comment and shakes his head. His breath stutters—barely there, but enough to catch. His eyes narrow, not in anger, but hesitation. Then he shakes his head. “We’re not talking about Poppy. We’re talking about this, here, us. The kiss that never should have happened.”

“Noted,” I say and try not to feel the knife twisting.

No girl wants to be seen as an opportunity to be used.

“But, Rocket, just like you can’t kiss me one minute and have an excuse for why it can’t happen next, you can’t have a daughter living under your roof and keep her at arm’s length because your fears are greater than your hopes.

And the fact that the kiss is what you’re addressing and not what you need from me to help you bridge that gap with your daughter speaks louder than anything else. ”

“That’s a low blow.”

“It’s the truth, though, right? Later when you’re replaying this conversation in your head, that’s the part that will be repeated the most.”

“Fuck.” He takes a few steps away and runs a hand through his hair, but he doesn’t refute me.

Doesn’t even try. At least there’s that.

“I meant what I said, okay? I don’t want this getting in the way of you staying.

You’re good for her. And she needs stability.

She needs more than me.” He looks at me again, and this time the flicker of pain in his eyes is real.

That’s it, isn’t it?

“You’re more than enough for her,” I say, needing him to hear that. Needing to chase away that vulnerability that’s wavering in his voice.

“Like I said, thank you for staying.” Blasé. Matter of fact.

I fold my arms over my chest and lift my chin with defiance. “I’m not staying for you.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth, not a smirk, not a smile, but more of an understanding. “Noted.”

We stand there, locked in a moment where I feel like he wants to say more.

Then a soft sound breaks it.

We both glance over toward the chair where Poppy lies curled in a ball, fast asleep.

The noise was from the books piled on her lap that slowly slid off and fell to the floor with one soft thump after another.

She has one arm flung over her bunny, and her mouth is slightly open but curled up in a soft smile, much like the one Rocket just gave me.

I watch him watch her. His eyes soften, and so many muscles in his face flicker but don’t fully commit to the expression. It’s like he wants to but isn’t allowing himself to.

“Do you want to move her to her bed?” I ask quietly .

He watches her for a long time. His expression softens, but his mouth is pulled tight as he struggles internally with his flood of emotions. “No. That’s okay.” He takes a step back. “She knows you better. I’d startle her.”

My heart falls. It’s a valid comment, and yet, I’m disappointed. “You can still try. It’s not like you’re a stranger.”

“I—uh ...” His Adam’s apple bobs. How he looks at her contrasts his words and I’m holding tight to that. “I don’t want her to be scared of me.”

It’s an admission at best and an excuse at worst. “Rocket,” I murmur.

“You can’t undo fear. I know that for a fact, okay? Call me callous. Call me distant. Tell me I’m struggling and need to do a better job ... but don’t make me do something that’s going to make her afraid of me.”

His words hit me hard. The conviction behind them even more so.

I struck a nerve—clearly—but that nerve also allowed me a glimpse of what drives Rocket’s distance.

What stops him from closing the distance.

What drives him to that realm of indifference where he has one foot stepping closer and the other pointed out the door.

This , I can deal with. Honesty. Truth. Fear. That , I can build from.

“I hear you and appreciate your honesty.” I nod.

“Have a good night,” he says. Our eyes meet as he nods and then closes the door he so desperately wanted open a few minutes ago.

Click .

And I’m alone again. Just as I should be. In the silence of a room accented by Poppy’s soft snores.

That sound, along with the ones of his footsteps going down the hall, is the only reminder I need that this isn’t about me. Poppy comes first.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at her. I’m here to do a job. I can ignore that lingering sense of attraction and chemistry. I don’t need to add that to this already tricky and sensitive situation.

He kissed me. He pushed me away. One shouldn’t have happened. The other should be the reason why it shouldn’t happen again.

In any other world but here, would I be disappointed by that? Of course. Without a doubt. The man kissed me, and I felt more alive than I have in years. Not since grief hollowed me out and left me waiting for someone to spark something in me again.

But this is not what I’m here for.

And I need to be okay with that.