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Willow

T he record store smells like old stories, dust, and vinyl. It’s the kind of nostalgia you can’t bottle.

Poppy’s curled up on a beanbag in the middle of the store. She’s content watching the lava lamps that the old record store has on various display cases. They mesmerize her, and I welcome the quiet as she’s been rather fussy today.

It was a long night to say the least. A nightmare yanked her from her sleep and produced murmurings of “ Mommy .” The only thing that calmed her was snuggling with Rocket as she traced the tattoos on his chest until she fell asleep.

Then a Zoom therapy call this morning. Not exactly the easiest when you’re on the road and the therapist has a hands-on approach, but consistency is more important than anything and so we’re doing the best we can with it.

Tour life is simply chaotic. Messy. Incredible and tough simultaneously .

The guys have been welcoming. The buses are a new experience. The hotels have run together so much so that they all seem the same.

But the way Rocket is with Poppy? The way he’s learning how to be a dad in the in-between moments of all the chaos? How he’s doing his best to communicate better with her? How when she’s cranky and insufferable, he puts her head on his chest and sings so the vibrations calm her down?

All those little moments with her, the ones I try to be invisible for or watch from afar, are what’s making me slowly fall for Rocket Caldwell.

Then of course, there’s the sex. Um ... wow . Like... the man knows how to make a woman feel everything . And since Poppy has mostly coped better with all these changes than I anticipated—she’s the definition of resilient—sneaking into the adjoining room at night has been an easier feat.

And then there are times like this. Rocket surprising me on an off day with a trip to explore the city.

Lunch in a rowboat so Poppy can feed the ducks.

A merry-go-round ride. And now this ...

us, slow-dancing mid-aisle, between the jazz and the rock sections.

It’s impromptu and sweet and totally unexpected.

“This doesn’t seem very rock star-ish of you,” I murmur.

“I’m trying to sneak a kiss in the middle of a music store. Can’t get more rock star than that.”

“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes at him and twist my lips.

“What? You can think of somewhere better?”

He spins me out and twirls me back in so I land solidly against him. My chuckle is seductive as I lean in and whisper, “I can think of a few other places that would be even sexier.”

“Name the place, sweetheart.”

“Rooftop? Sound booth? Our bed at home ?”

He groans when I say the last one—we’ve both been saying how much we miss home—but luckily for me, he didn’t catch the our bed part.

Would that spook him?

I don’t know how it would since we’re basically living together, but I’ll leave it be.

“You know what, Wills? You just threw down the gauntlet. I definitely intend to pick it up,” Rocket says.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“And I’ll be wanting.” His hand is on my back, warm and possessive. His other hand curls around mine so that his thumb brushes lazy circles against my palm as we sway in the middle of the empty aisle.

The song coming through the speaker ends and a new one begins. It’s a seductive jazz number that’s slower. Sexier. The kind that wraps around you and dares you not to feel.

Rocketleans in, voice low and rough. “I didn’t expect to enjoy this as much as I am.”

“The record store?” I lean back to meet his eyes.

He shakes his head, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest. “No. The tour. You two being here. Exploring with you. It’s ... so vastly different from what I’m used to.”

My pulse jumps because it’s not just the words, but rather the way he says them. Like he’s trying to understand them too, because they’re so unfamiliar.

“I’m hoping that’s a good thing.”

“Very. I’ve had a lot of things in my life. Noise. Fame. Girls. Chaos.” He pauses, his thumb absently brushing over the back of my hand. “But this? It’s ... more. Not in the way I thought I wanted. But in a way I didn’t know I needed.”

My throat tightens, and I don’t know what to say. Because this still isn’t a declaration. It’s not a label. It isn’t a promise. But it’shonest .

And coming from him that means something.

He gives me a slow, shy smile. “Let’s just say I’m starting to like the quiet. You’ve made me like the quiet.”

Something shifts in the moment. It’sintimate andundeniable. How can that simple statement mean so very much to me?

My chest presses into his, and his hand slides up my back beneath the hem of my shirt. And when he lowers his head, lips so damn close to mine, Ifeelit.

I want it.

But then he freezes.

I feel the hesitation before I see it. His hand stiffens. His eyes flick sideways toward the store window. And then he pulls back so casually it hurts.

Like we didn’t just share a moment.

I blink, still swaying slightly, heart thudding in my throat, and confusion front and center as he moves about the store.

“Rocket?” I ask, trying to understand the sudden shift in his demeanor .

He gives a shake of his head before walking back toward me, but keeping a display of records that fall waist high between us.

I look away, pretending to check on Poppy, and trying to weirdly not feel rejected. I can acknowledge that it’s a valid emotion to feel.

“Hey. Look at me.”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” I say.

“I do. I didn’t kiss you just now because I panicked. I looked up and thought, what if someone takes a picture? What if that gets put on social media? How will that affect you when you take the stand in the custody hearing?”

“Affect me or affect you?” I ask, confused how we could spend all day together in public places, places where photos of us close together were undoubtedly taken, but now he says that?

“Both? Your credibility and selfishly my ability to keep Poppy. A picture getting out of us slow-dancing and kissing in public will decimate your credibility to vouch for me. You’re my nanny, Willow. Not my girlfriend. Not ‘officially’ anyway. That’s how they’ll see it.”

He’s not wrong. My stomach pitches at the thought. And yet stupidly, that small rejection lingers like a bruise.

“Right. I forgot. My opinion comes with a disclaimer.”

His jaw tics. He closes his eyes for a beat. “Fuck, Willow. I’m trying toprotectyou.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

But that doesn’t mean that it didn’tseem like he’s embarrassed for the world to see me with him. That he wants to keep me a secret to keep his approachability up.

I move toward the end of my aisle, and he mirrors my action in his. When I go to walk past him to hang with Poppy, he catches my wrist.

“Don’t walk away. I told you how I felt. The quiet . That still stands all these minutes later,” he teases.

I can’t help my smile or the sudden embarrassment regarding my overreaction.

And before I can answer, he’s tugging me around the corner, behind one of the taller shelves, half-shadowed by bins of dusty cassette tapes and forgotten band posters, but still with a direct line of sight to Poppy.

“No cameras here,” he murmurs before cupping my face andkissing me .

His mouth is hot and demanding but tender and reverent. He kisses me like I’m not just a secret or a mistake or a risk.

He kisses me like Imatter.

And when he finally pulls back, breath ragged, pupils dark, he rests his forehead against mine.

“In case you misunderstood what my lips just did, I’ll repeat myself with words. I want to kiss you every goddamn second I’m around you, Willow. Just give me time to figure out how to do it without losing everything in the process.”