Page 6

Willow

T he non-disclosure agreement I was required to sign comes with ridiculous repercussions for breaking it.

Jackie’s comments in the park about Poppy’s father.

The way Alan was so secretive about all references to the paternity test.

It all clicks into place the second the front door opens, and I come face to face with Poppy’s father.

A name spoken aloud or read on a piece of paper is one thing. But when that door opens and Rocket Caldwell stands before me, shoulders filling the doorway, the enormity of what I’d agreed to and who I was now working for hits me.

“Is now the time to tell you who you’ll be working for?” Alan asks as I buckle Poppy into her booster seat.

“Gavin Caldwell. That’s the name that was on the NDA, was it not?” I ask, clearly missing something by the smirk on his face.

“That’s the name on his birth certificate, yes. ”

I tap Poppy on the nose and make a sound. She smiles softly. It’s been a long few days spent inside the small world I created for us in a hotel room. One of snuggles and puppet shows with toilet paper rolls. Of forts made of sheets and reading books.

She didn’t take to me right away—I definitely had to work at it, and she still hasn’t spoken—but it’s my hand she clutches tightly to.

It’s my eyes she veers to when asked a question so that I can speak for her.

Her trust in me is growing. I hope that with time, I can begin to help her emotionally sort through whatever trauma she may have seen in that car.

I close the door on the back seat and climb in the front seat beside my cousin. His eyebrows are lifted, and the smirk still toys at the corner of his lips. “What am I missing?” I ask.

“You’re a music lover,” he states.

“What does that have to do with...wait. Who is Gavin Caldwell?” I ask, realizing not every celebrity or musician uses their real name.

“Ever heard of the band BENT?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t? They’re on my evergreen playlist—Rocket.” His name comes out in a shocked whisper as I recall from some article I read somewhere that Rocket’s last name is Caldwell.

“Bingo,” Alan says as he enters the freeway and heads toward the Brentwood area of Los Angeles. “Now do you see why I’ve had to keep this close to the vest?”

Jesus Christ .

Rocket Caldwell.

The same feeling remains as I come face to face with someone who’s come into my life on my social media and playlists for years. Who is part of the band that has sung anthems that I correlate with various parts of my adult life.

Thirty whole seconds.

On the drive over here, that’s the amount of time I decided that I’d give myself to stare and ogle and be starstruck by my new and most likely temporary employer.

What I didn’t expect was for that thirty seconds to start the second the front door to the massive house swings open.

No lawyer opening it. No personal assistant holding court.

No girlfriend clinging to his side. Just Rocket Caldwell, one of the biggest rock stars on the planet, standing before us.

His hair is tousled. His tattoos climb up one of his arms like sin incarnate.

And he leans against the frame in nothing butlow-slung worn jeans, a dark V-neck shirt, and a look on his face of confused displeasure.

But he’s here, on his own, facing down the fact he has a toddler he never knew he had. That means he’s either the measure of a man or is hiding this new fact about his life from everyone in his.

The latter has me reserving judgment.

My thirty seconds are up.

Jesus . He packs a punch. A punch even I can feel from my position where I’m partially hidden behind Alan’s shoulder.

I ogle a second longer but then Poppy stirs in my arms, and the guilt crashes down upon me.

“Mr. Caldwell,” Alan says as he steps aside so that the two of us come into Rocket’s full view.

Rocket’s eyes—deep, reckless, familiar in an unexpected way that unsettles me—flicker down to the little girl snuggled in my arms. Poppy’s sound asleep, her cheek pressed to my collarbone, thick lashes resting on rosy, round cheeks, and curls tickling her shoulders.

“While I know you’re expecting us, I’m sure that this is all rather shocking to you,” Alan says gently. “But I’d like you to meet your daughter, Poppy. She’ll wake any second no doubt—”

“No. Leave her.” Panic laces his voice as he stares at Poppy like he’s trying to memorize something he didn’t know existed until recently.

Like she might disappear if he blinks, but he’s not sure if he actually wants her to.

But then I can see it—the shift. The second he shoves down being mesmerized and becomes... indifferent ? Almost as if he’s not sure he’ll accept this new reality.

I wasn’t sure what I expected when Alan divulged who Poppy’s father was, and the whole ride over here I’ve been playing out this first meeting in my head. I figured it would be emotionally charged but wasn’t certain what that charged emotion would be.

Or how awkward and intrusive it would feel to be a part of this moment.

Would I want a witness to me rejecting my own daughter? Because that’s what his physical recoil says when he takes a step back and just stares.

“Mr. Caldwell?” Alan prompts .

The muscle in his jaw clenches as we all wait in the suspended silence. His voice is gravel when he finally speaks. “This can’t be real. She can’t be—”

“Like I said,” Alan says, “I understand this is all quite a shock to you and will take some time to process, but the sooner we get Poppy with you and integrated into your life, the better it is for her emotionally and mentally. She’s been through more than most adults can handle in a very short amount of time. ”

“May we come in?” I ask.

Rocket’s eyes flicker to mine for the first time and then immediately back to Poppy. “Sure. Yes. Come in.”

His movements are jerky. Mechanical. And if I weren’t standing here, seeing the whites of his eyes, I’d question if the man was strung out.

But he’s not.

He’s panicked. Terrified. Unsettled in the worst way possible and not sure what to do.

The smallest part of me feels for him. I do. But an even bigger part of me feels for the little girl in my arms who’ll need him to step up to the plate for her.

I just hope that he does.

Rocket ushers us inside. The interior of his home is nothing like I expected.

I thought I’d find sleek modern furniture in monochromatic tones that felt cold and unlived in.

Instead, I find warm tones and sprawling couches that look like you could sit down on them only to realize later you’ve slept for hours.

Where I thought I’d find empty booze bottles littering the coffee table and maybe a stray bra missed or stashed in a corner, from my vantage point, everything seems to be tidy and in its place.

The man leading us down the wide hallway may smell from what I assume was a late night of drinking, but he did, in fact, pick up his house. Or he has people for that.

But if he does, they are nowhere to be found to greet the newest addition to the household.

The hallway leads into a massive room that opens up with high, vaulted ceilings.

The space has a chef’s kitchen on the far side, a sitting area around a large television on the other and the whole western-facing wall has windows that overlook an extensive backyard—patio cover, fireplace, pool on one side, large grass area on the other .

And while there’s a bag of trash tied up and sitting against a door, everything else is clean. No dirty dishes stacked in the sink. No random person crashed out on the couch. No bongs displayed like art on the shelves.

Yes, I’ve seen it all in my time working with families, but my first impression here—other than the man beside me—is that he wanted to make a good one. That he was in fact trying.

Either that or he’s freakishly clean.

I’ll assume he’s typically somewhere in the middle on a normal day, so at least there’s a sense here that he cares.

It’s not a huge sign, but it’s better than none at all.

He clears his throat and narrows his brows as he seems to notice anyone other than Poppy is here for the first time. “Do—uh—you want to sit down? She, uh, looks heavy.”

“Yes. She’s getting to be.” I shift her in my arms. “Thank you.”

I move toward one of those massive couches I was admiring in the other room and sit down, grateful to have some support. Carrying a sleeping toddler is like carrying dead weight.

“Forgive me. Where are my manners?” Alan says. “Mr. Caldwell, this is Willow Adams. I know Sandra has coordinated her staying on for a probationary period while—”

“Hey.” Rocket’s gaze finally shifts to me, and he nods in greeting.

“You ready to do this?” I ask and then cringe at the stupidest comment in the world. Of course he isn’t. By the look on his face, he’d rather have every tooth pulled without Novocain than be here, but when I get nervous, I say the most awkward things.

Like that.

“No. Actually, I’m not,” he deadpans, his vibrant green eyes assessing and judging and criticizing all in one fell swoop. “That’s why you’re here.”

Oh . That’s how this is going to be. Disbelief laced with anger. Rejection edged with irrefutable proof.

I stare at him, eyes narrowed, but knowing my place. I’m not exactly getting the best first impression of Rocket Caldwell.

But I’ll reserve judgment. At least, I’ll try to .

Alan clears his throat as Rocket’s eyes veer back to Poppy. “All of the legalities have already been taken care of by your attorney. Paperwork, medical records, any and everything else that was found in her mother’s place. ”

“Fine.” He glances around his own home like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

“Then it’s probably time that I get going,” Alan says and glances to me with a reassuring look.

“A social worker will be checking in to check on how things are going in the coming days and weeks, but if you have any questions, I’ll leave my card on the counter here.

Willow also knows how to get ahold of me. ”