Page 27

Willow

I can’t sleep.

Not because I’m uncomfortable or because Poppy is restless. She’s tucked in tight in her bed next door to mine, snoring softly, with her favorite rabbit under one arm and one finger twirled in a curl of her hair.

No, I can’t sleep because ofhis comment. I just hope I can make her love me . It plays on a loop in my head, along with the image of Rocket sitting beside me with his broad shoulders tense and his brow furrowed. It was as if letting me see that side of him took everything he had.

And that wrecked me a little.

So after tossing and turning, I give up on sleep, tug on a sweatshirt, and pad quietly down the hallway and into the kitchen.

The house is dimly lit by a soft glow spilling from the family room.

I turn the corner and find him there. Rocket’s sitting on the couch with one arm sprawled over its back and a glass in his other hand. Whiskey, probably. The drink you sip when you’re chasing silence .

Or regretting your choices.

He paints a striking picture. A lonely one. He’s staring out the windows at the Los Angeles valley beyond. It’s a glittering stretch of chaos that eventually falls dark when it hits the Pacific.

He has to know I’m here. It’s not like I tiptoed into the room, but he doesn’t turn or look my way. He just lifts his glass to his lips and then lowers it back down after he takes a sip.

I’m drawn to him in a way I’ve never been to a man before. Is it because I think I can fix him? Is it because he’s so different from the people in my small circle, and there’s a thrill to that?

“You’re up late,” I say.

He doesn’t look over. “You too.” He shrugs. “I’m a night owl. It’s way too early for me to sleep.”

I hover for a second, figuring he probably wants to be alone.

“Come sit,” he murmurs.

I know before I take a step that this is the point of no return for me. It’s not his looks or personality or fame that attracts me, though ... it’s his vulnerability. His willingness to try. That’s what is blurring lines for me that were so well defined before.

I cross the room and sink into the opposite end of the couch, pulling my knees up under me. I look out toward the same view that’s captured his attention. “Thanks for letting me join you.”

He nods. “Do you want a drink?”

“No. I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Lots on my mind,” I say.

“Those forms you’ve been filling out for college?”

You.

“Something like that,” I say.

We sit there like that for a minute, saying nothing and just watching the world outside move by.

He breaks the silence first. “Tour starts again in a few weeks.”

I glance over. “You excited to get back to doing what you love?”

He makes a face I can’t decipher. “I don’t know. Usually, yeah. But now ...”

“Now there’s a three-year-old in the picture.”

“And her nanny,” he adds, a crooked grin crawling over his lips. “Ever been on tour before? ”

I snort. “You heard my singing earlier. Of course I have. With talent like that, I’ve sold out stadiums.”

Everything about him relaxes. “Damn, you must have been the one who broke our record.”

“I was. I hate to break it to you.” I smile at him and contemplate that I should have taken that drink he offered.

“Don’t worry. We’ll win that title back.”

“I have no doubt.”

“So are you excited to go on tour with us then?”

My head startles. “I—uh—figured I’d be staying back with Poppy. That way you can have a bit of your old life back, and I can ... get her used to her new one.”

He narrows his eyebrows, but his only response is, “Right.”

The word feels hostile. Irritated. And here I thought I was giving him what he wants.

“Poppy’s barely settled. It’s a big ask, throwing her into another unknown.

Constant changes. New places. Loud crowds.

” I rest my chin on my knee and cave to the need to explain.

“I think Poppy’s doing okay because she has structure right now. The idea of upending that ...”

He nods slowly. “And if I’m not around, how am I supposed to connect with her?”

The question is quiet. Honest. I look at him, really look at him.

For the first time, I believe hegets it. That he’s not just going through the motions or waiting for the storm to pass. That he’s actuallytrying.

“I don’t know. When it comes down to it, it’s your call what you want to do. She’s your daughter.”

“You mean I’m her rock ... et, ” he says and pretends to hold a rock next to his ear that makes us both chuckle.

“Yes. You are her rock ... et .”

“God, that made me laugh. Her expression and giggle and ... she’s funny,” he muses over the lip of his glass.

“Probably a bad choice on my end to pick up a rock for comparison, but I was startled.”

“I like it. Don’t apologize.” He takes another sip and darts his tongue out to lick his lips. “At some point soon, I need to tell her I’m her dad. Does she even know what that is?”

“It’s a good idea to ... and if I’m honest, I don’t know how much she knows. She overheard us talking. She’s overheard the wives talking about the two of you looking like each other. She’s a very intelligent little girl. She might already know.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and the scraping sound of his stubble fills the room.

I rest my head on the side of the couch, sink farther into the plush couch, and meet his gaze. “Why music, Rocket? Where did that start?”

He lifts his brows and chuckles at some memory only he knows. “Because it was the only thing that made sense when nothing else did.” He shrugs. “Because when I couldn’t say how I felt, I could play it, even when I didn’t understand it myself.”

“I get that.” Maybe I need to get Poppy an instrument. Maybe that will help her feel connected to Rocket.

“I never knew my dad. My mom had a revolving door of boyfriends. She was so busy trying to keep them around—for their money, for the way she thought they gave her value, for an escape from having to be a mom, I guess. I was pretty much left to raise myself so she could entertain them. I spent a lot of nights shut in my bedroom or on the back porch or falling asleep in the back seat of the car as to not disturb her and whatever she had going on so I used music to keep me company.”

A lump forms in my throat. There’s nothing I can say or do to change the damage of his past, but it does give me some explanation as to why he fears fatherhood. I had a hunch, but he just confirmed it.

“How did you settle on the keyboard?” That should move us to safer territory.

His grin is lightning quick and mischievous as fuck. “Diana Finkleman.”

“Who?” I laugh because the way he says her name with mesmerized awe is like a grade-school kid who has a crush.

“She was a friend’s sister. Taught piano down at the local church. She was so hot. So ... developed for a sophomore.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I was a freshman, and at that age all it takes is a stiff breeze to make you hard. Can you blame me?”

“No,” I say through a laugh, wondering what a teenage Rocket was like.

“Dude, everybody wanted her. I mean, I didn’t come from a church-faring family or anything,” he says. “But that church had some damn good cookies.”

“And they had Diana teaching piano lessons.”

“Exactly.” He gives a shake of his head. “The church was quiet. There wasn’t any yelling. And when Diana sat beside me, her chest would brush my arm every time she leaned in to show me finger positions and scales and ...”

“And so you asked her to show you again and again.”

“I did.”

“And you fell in love with the piano.”

“More like I fell in love with her and the attention she gave me because I had a knack for it.”

“You were good.”

“I was good. I could listen to a song or series of notes and play it back without needing sheet music or practice.”

“That’s incredible.”

“I was fortunate to have that knack. The more people I meet in the industry, the more I realized it’s rare. But yeah, learning piano wasn’t sexy at the time, but it earned me my first kiss with Diana,” he admits and grins. “And it came in handy.”

“Clearly.”

“Gizmo and I met Vince and Hawkin at a house party years later. They were talking about putting a band together. I convinced them they needed someone who could play the keyboard.”

“And the rest is history?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Four guys from fucked-up homes figuring their own shit out. We gravitated toward each other. Became friends. Now are brothers.”

“That’s a cool story.” I grab the pillow and hug it to my chest. “Thank you for sharing.”

He reaches out and tugs on one of my bare feet. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

The question catches me off guard. “I mean, if you wanted to change the subject, you should be a little less subtle. There’s no way I would’ve gotten the hint.”

“Why beat around the bush?” But his hand is still on the top of my foot, and his thumb is still brushing absently back and forth. “So ...”

“I had one. Once.”

“Once?” He nudges me with his shoulder. “You have to give me more than that.”

I pick at the hem of my sleeve. “His name was James. We grew up together. Family friends we’d vacation with. Barbecue with. We went from making mud pies in my mom’s garden as kids to first kisses at high school dances. He was a good guy.”

“I’d expect nothing less if you liked him.”

My smile is bittersweet. All those memories I still hold dear and paint such a great light on my youth. Almost every memory of family vacations has him in it. Every birthday party or holiday growing up includes him.

“First love turned into college sweethearts. We made the long-distance thing work even though it was just across town. Never really discussed the future but knew we’d end up together. And then one day in our junior year of college, I got the call from his mom that he was gone.”

I can still feel the memory so clearly. Can hear the emotion in his mom’s voice. Can remember feeling like my heart had been ripped out and shattered.

“Gone, gone?” Rocket asks, his expression flooded with compassion.