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“Gone, gone.” I sigh. “It was a fluke thing. An undiagnosed congenital heart defect. He went to bed then just never woke up.”

“I’m so sorry, Willow.”

“It’s okay. It was years ago.”

“Years don’t erase the hurt. They just dull the edges.”

“Spoken like a songwriter,” I tease.

His smile is cheerless. “And I imagine you swore off relationships after that for good reason.”

“More like I swore off possible hurt from losing someone again.”

“Valid.” He toggles his head from side to side. “You threw yourself into school, then work. I bet it’s way easier to get lost in that than put yourself out there again.”

I raise a hand. “Guilty as charged.”

“If you don’t get attached, then you can’t get hurt, right?” Truer words have never been spoken. “We’re the same but different,” he says.

“How so?”

“You don’t date because you know how bad the heartbreak is. I feared getting to know Poppy because I know how bad the heartbreak is when a parent lets you down.” He takes another sip. “The same, but different.”

“The same but different,” I repeat. “Is that your excuse why you don’t have someone? Or I guess I should say many someones?”

He chuckles. “My life is chaotic. What you’re seeing now—me being at home, the quiet, the calm—it’s the exception, not the rule. The rest of the time, it’s press and performances and hotels and flights and no sleep and running on caffeine.”

“And whiskey and women galore,” I say with an infused cheer.

He looks at me while I berate myself for making a second comment about the abundant women in his life although, I’ve yet to see that side of him. I sound like a jealous lover when I have no right to feel that way.

“That comes with the territory,” he says slowly. “ If I want it to. ”

I clear my throat. His hand on my foot feels like a brand now. Hot. Noticeable. Something I should pull away from yet I sit and welcome the burn.

“Does it bug you?” he asks.

“What?”

“My lifestyle. The stereotypes. Your suppositions.”

I swallow. “Why should it?”

He shrugs, eyes on mine. “Because you seem pretty strait-laced.”

“There’s a difference between being strait-laced and thinking there needs to be something behind sleeping with someone simply because they’re there.”

“I’m thinking that’s a dig, but I accept it.

” He looks down where his hand is on my foot before he slowly scrapes its way up my body.

I never believed someone could fuck you with their eyes before, but I’m feeling well and thoroughly fucked right now.

“Don’t you ever do something just because it feels good, Willow? ”

It’s a loaded question and one that I feel right down to the apex of my thighs.

“I like to do a lot of things because they feel good.” I straighten my back and try not to be offended.

“You’re not selling that too well.” He chuckles.

“No. I’m serious. Sometimes it’s the holding out that makes it better in the long run. It’s the wait. The anticipation. The going to piano lessons just so Diana Finklebottom or whatever her name is can brush her boob against you that makes it that much more .”

“So you’re saying a guy like me doesn’t appreciate anticipation?”

“I don’t know. You tell me? Do you ?”

“ Humph .” He twists his lips, and his fingers trail beneath the hem of my joggers and up the back of my calf.

“I don’t see someone like you ever accepting or wanting a guy like me.”

Accepting him? Wanting him ? My stomach twists .

But I don’t say what I’m thinking—thatI do want him, despite everything. Despite his past. Despite mine.

“We all pretend to be someone we’re not,” I murmur, not completely sure what I mean by the comment. “I mean, until we meet the right person.”

The silence that follows is heavy, not uncomfortable, but thick with all the things I’m not certain either of us know to say.

“And who, Willow Adams, is it that you’re pretending to be?” His voice is low and seductive. A challenge and an invitation.

He moves first with just a shift of his knee. Followed by a tilt of his head and a look that lingers.

“No one,” I whisper once I’m able to find my voice.

His hand slides up to cup my face, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the line of my jaw. For a second, I forget to breathe. For a moment, I realize the burn his hand on my foot caused has nothing on the way my entire body feels right now. Ablaze.

Then he leans in. There’s no hesitation on his part and just a stuttered breath on mine before he brushes his lips lightly against mine.

Once.

Twice.

Then the kiss delves deeper, coaxing something out of me I didn’t know was still alive. It’s not rushed. Not demanding. It’sreverent. Intentional. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

And I don’t want to think about the dozen reasons I should.

The hunger is still there, stronger than the last time and stoked from the anticipation of this possibly happening again, but it’s subtler. It’s more controlled.

And I’m not sure if that intimidates or excites me.

My fingers reach for the hem of his shirt, fisting the soft cotton like I need something to hold on to. Like I need to feel his skin beneath to know this is real. That he’s real.

But instead of letting me touch him, instead of allowing me to initiate the next steps of whatever this is, he pulls me closer, his hand finding mine and gently pressing it to his chest. Over his heart.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “No. Just this.”

I blink, startled. Breathless.

He sees it—the hurt—the flicker of doubt behind my eyes .

Like I’m not enough.

Like I’m not what he wants.

But then he smiles. Slow. Soft.

“Don’t read into it,” he murmurs as he tugs on my bottom lip. “Let’s not pretend to be something we’re not.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles.

“Just enjoy the moment,” he says before slipping his tongue between my lips and deepening the kiss. “The anticipation.”

And it makes me wonder. Is Rocket trying not to sleep with me? To keep this light?

Not necessarily because he doesn’t want me ... but so he doesn’t need me?

Right now, I’m not sure which is more dangerous.