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He runs a hand through his hair and then hangs it on the back of his neck, despair owning every ounce of his posture. “If I said no, you can’t go, it wouldn’t matter, would it?” he asks with a half-assed chuckle.

“No. I’m sorry. It wouldn’t,” Alan says.

“Our bags,” I say, realizing they’re still in the car.

“I’ll get them,” Rocket says and moves toward the door without waiting for a response.

Alan glances at me again. “You okay?”

I nod and whisper, “Yeah. It’ll be fine. This is a lot for anyone.” And I mean it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not wary about what the coming days will bring.

“Okay. Call me for anything.”

“Will do,” I say as he rushes out of the house and after Rocket to get our bags out of the car.

Within seconds of the front door shutting, there’s a thunk from our bags hitting the floor, followed by a very long, drawn-out sigh, and then a pause before the footsteps carry back my way.

I know he’s there, just behind the couch, and we both sit in that uncomfortable silence as we play a game of chicken over who’s going to speak first.

I decide I should.

“Thank you for bringing the bags in.”

“I haven’t even figured out ... anything ,” he says.

“It’s okay. She’s little. She’ll fit anywhere,” I joke as he passes me, moves to the other side of the room, and then finally turns to face me.

“I appreciate the jokes, but this situation is far from funny.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” I tuck an errant curl off Poppy’s cheek to behind her ear and when I look back up, he’s studying her again.

It must be weird to look at someone, at the spitting image of you, and know they were in the world and you didn’t have a clue .

“Do you prefer Rocket or Gavin?” I ask.

“I don’t respond to Gavin.” He snorts. “ Ever .”

“Noted.” I nod and then begin to say the spiel I’ve replayed over and over in my head the past few days, knowing the situation I had agreed to walk into might be difficult.

And if I practice what I need to say, then at least about 30 percent of it will sound right before the rest goes off the rails.

“So I know this is a weird situation for both of us. I’m here to help you.

To make sure there’s some stability for Poppy after everything she’s gone through and to make sure that she’s cared for.

No doubt you’ve been through an emotional roller coaster too that you’ve yet to have time to process. ”

“Your point?”

“Don’t kill the messenger—figuratively, of course.” I lift my eyebrows and shift. “I’m here to make your life easier.”

“Fine. Great. Thanks,” he says. “You guys can stay on that end of the house. One room is ready. I’ll have to move some stuff out of the other one for you.”

“No need.” I smile and shake my head. “I said I’d stay on for the first week or two while you two adjust, and then I’ll work a more regular schedule.”

“No. That wasn’t the deal.” Panic once again laces his voice. He’s scared of being alone with her. “Sandra told me you were a live-in nanny.”

“I . . . that wasn’t—”

“Do I look capable of doing this alone?” he asks. “The deal is live here or the job is done.”

I bark out a disbelieving laugh as Poppy stirs to life. He’s so full of shit he stinks, but I’ll play along. “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll go. I’m sure there are plenty of other qualified nannies who—”

“Name your price.”

I try not to startle at his words. At his demand. The desperation in his voice speaks volumes. “It’s not a matter of price. I have an apartment. A life—”

“I’ll pay your rent while you’re here. I’ll double your salary. We’ll work out a schedule that suits you.” He holds his hands out, frustrated and probably used to getting exactly what he wants simply because of who he is. “Live here. Help me. Name your fucking price, just don’t leave.”

I close my eyes and draw in a long, deep breath. More money. Rent paid. That sound of desperation he just spoke with now embedded in my head as much as the way Poppy’s fingers tighten on the piece of my shirt she has gripped in her little hands. Two people desperate and scared.

“Fine, but there are conditions.”

“You already signed the contract,” he says, like my statement is as preposterous as it really is.

But clearly, I hold the leverage right now.

“I did.”

“You’re savvy, Willow. I like that.” It’s the first time I see his smile. The one that I’m sure has charmed the pants off more women than I care to count. And it takes me a second to remember where I am and what I’m supposed to do and that—

But then Poppy stirs. The playful moment is gone and the levity of the situation is suddenly back and weighing down the room.

“I mean it. I’ll stay. I’ll be a live-in, but I will not be her sole caretaker, and you will not shirk your duties with lame excuses like I’ve never done this before or I never asked for this.”

“The nanny has demands.”

“Yes. She does,” I state, and this time when he holds my eyes across the room, there’s more than fear and panic in his eyes.

For the first time there’s a vulnerability there along with something I can’t quite place.

I have a feeling I’m going to have to remember I once saw it though, because as soon as it’s there, it’s buttoned back up and gone.

“You’ll find I’m far from fucking perfect,” he states.

“Aren’t we all?”

“This isn’t...Just because this is being forced on me doesn’t mean I’m going to have to like it.”

There is a callousness to his tone. An edge that says he’s used to getting and doing whatever he wants, and this isn’t it.

He’ll come around. He has to.

As if he’s suddenly uncomfortable with this conversation, he glances to the bags he dropped to the side of the couch. “This is all she has?”

“The little one is hers. It’s what her mom’s friend thought she might need most. Yes.”

“Whatever else she needs, you can buy for her.” He moves absently around his family room.

He picks up a bottle of water and then sets it back down without drinking it.

He pushes a magazine a few inches to the right.

He takes a step one way before retreating and then taking a seat opposite me.

He’s doing anything and everything but look the one place it seems his eyes are drawn to. Poppy .

He’s nervous. Uncertain.

For a man comfortable in front of tens of thousands of people, he’s definitely out of his comfort zone right now, and I keep reminding myself that as I initiate this first interaction.

“You can look at her, you know,” I say softly.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he closes his eyes for a beat. “I don’t want—”

“You’re not going to disturb her. She’s three and three-year-olds sleep like a rock.”

“I just,” he says, but his eyes flutter up and then over to Poppy.

I loosen my hold on her now that I can use the back of the couch for support. Her body turns more, and her hair falls back and off her cheek.

Rocket’s breath hitches when he sees Poppy’s face for the first time. “She’s still asleep,” he whispers, his voice rougher now. Hesitant.

“She is,” I say. “She’s had a rough and very confusing few days. Nightmares. Tantrums. Missing her mom. Sleep is good for her.”

He grunts but his eyes never stop running over the little girl on my lap. It’s a stretch of time. Of questions in Rocket’s expression that he doesn’t voice aloud. It’s in the bob of his Adam’s apple and the shaking back and forth of his head like he still doesn’t believe she’s real.

If this moment feels like forever to me, I can’t imagine how it feels to him.

“Do you have any questions?” I ask.

A muscle tics in his jaw before he chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Oh, I have a shit ton of them, but not a single one pertains to you.”

I nod. “Understandable. Just remember that whatever those shit ton of questions are, Poppy here is caught in their crossfire and can’t give you a single answer. She’s innocent in all of this.”

His expression shifts—offense, confusion, something wounded just beneath the surface. “Glad you assume I’d blame her.”

“I don’t assume anything. I’m simply stating—”

Unknowingly, Poppy steals the moment when she releases my shirt for the first time to rub her eyes. She emits the cutest little yawn before those thick lashes of hers flutter open.

Her body stiffens as awareness hits her that she’s in yet another new, foreign place. Her emerald-green eyes flicker around before landing back on me. It’s then and only then that a slow, sleep-drugged smile crawls over her lips.

“Hi, sleepyhead,” I say to her. My smile is as automatic as the shrug of her shoulders and the refastening of her hand to my shirt. But it’s the quick intake of breath that Rocket emits on the opposite side of the coffee table that owns the room.

Poppy follows my glance to where Rocket sits, face pale, almost as if he’s trying not to fall apart.

Something shifts behind his eyes. And momentarily, I see a man who’sterrified. Of her. Of this. Of what it might mean to love someone when you have no clue how. Or am I projecting?

“Rocket?” I murmur.

“I—I need a minute,” he says, voice low, raw.