Page 9

Willow

R ocket watches Poppy’s every movement. Her every expression.

His arms are crossed and his body’s still, almost as if he’s afraid to move. Like if he breathes too loud, she’ll vanish. And by the way she jumped behind my back when he took a step forward, she just might.

“She looks like me,” he murmurs.

Poppy has taken a seat on the other side of the room.

She wandered there herself with her stuffed animals and is setting up what I am making out to be is some sort of house on the floor with throw pillows used as a crude wall around them.

She has methodically arranged her stuffed animals in a neat little line.

Bunny. Fox. Elephant. All worn in the way toys get when they’re loved hard and carried everywhere.

“She does. Yes,” I say, knowing she’s just out of earshot. Clearly, he’s her “ friend ” at this point and so that’ll be a whole other topic to figure out—when to tell her he’s her dad .

“And the not talking thing?” His Adam’s apple bobs with a fleeting glance my way.

“In simple terms, it’s her way of coping.”

“But she’s okay, right? Nothing happened in the accident to her physically that.

..” He speaks like he should be presenting in a boardroom.

Unemotional. And yet, while it can be read as not caring, the fact that he’s asking when he seems so conflicted with the entire situation tells me that in fact, he does.

“Physically, yes. Emotionally . . . time will tell.”

He makes a noncommittal sound as he shifts on his feet, his gaze never leaving Poppy for more than a second. Moments ago, he was looking anywhere but at her and now it seems he can’t look away.

I take the moment to study the man I’ll now be living with.

His hair is a dark brown, a little shaggy, but only in the way it curls at his neck and over his ears.

His eyes are the same vibrant green as Poppy’s, but whereas hers are full of wonder, there’s wariness in his.

He’s tall, I’d say a few inches over six foot, and while he’s not bulked with muscles, it’s obvious he’s fit.

And then there’s his array of tattoos that Poppy seems completely fascinated with.

They twist down one arm and over a very defined forearm stopping just before his wrist.

And on that wrist is the only flashy thing on him, what looks like a very expensive watch. It seems completely out of place with his faded jeans, navy blue V-neck shirt, and combat boots.

“This is—” He steps forward, then stops short like there’s an invisible line he doesn’t know how to cross. “Her mom. Olivia. I barely remember her.”

I nod in response.

“Not because she wasn’t anything but...I mean, it was just a quick thing.” He groans. “I know how that sounds, how that makes me look. It’s just—”

“I’m not here to judge.” But I am judging and I’m wondering how common this kind of thing is for him. If the rock star stereotype is true.

I’m far from a prude, but I can’t say that random hookups are my thing.

Sure, I’ve had a few in my adult life, but my mind veers to the logistical element of this.

Is this a norm for him ? If so, does he bring women here?

How am I supposed to sit with Poppy watching shows while he’s having some wild, loud sex in his bedroom—wherever in the house that may be?

And while I’m at it, does he throw crazy parties here?

Do I need to be worried about cleanliness and the things Poppy will inevitably put in her mouth?

“But you are judging,” he says, his eyebrows raised and his eyes firmly on mine now.

I’m aware how willingly he shifts to topics he can argue with me on rather than interact with Poppy.

It’s like he starts to peek his head up from behind his guarded wall and then ducks down the minute he realizes he’s doing it.

“You’re judging and wondering and questioning about my sex life and my reputation and everything in between. ”

I hold my hands up. “I’m here for Poppy.”

He grunts and holds my gaze, but he doesn’t defend himself or how many women he’s slept with, which is where I thought this conversation I never wanted was going.

His eyes drift back to Poppy and her mindless playing with her stuffed animals.

“This is insane,” he says to no one in particular.

“I’m going to have to agree with you on that one,” I say.

He runs a hand down his face, scrubbing over his jaw, and then looks back at me. Again, it’s not arrogance or deflection I see in them—it’s absolute disbelief.

And buried beneath that, something I can’t exactly name. Hope? Disbelief? Possibility? Disgust?

“Do you want some coffee?” he asks. Again, another way to deflect instead of sitting down with his daughter.

“Only if it’s stronger than whatever it is you were drinking last night,” I say, trying to ease the tension in the room.

His smirk is back. Lazy. Dangerous.

Oh. Don’t do that, Rocket.

“Coffee it is,” he says, already heading to the kitchen. “Last night’s drink of choice was warranted for many reasons, all of which I’m sure you can understand.”

“Uh-huh.” I stand and run a hand down Poppy’s back as I watch him move behind the kitchen island.

“You’ll learn I’m an excellent host on a normal day.” He pulls down two mugs. “Today is nowhere close to being normal.”

“Can’t disagree with you there.”

I shouldn’t feel this amused by his discomfort and his awkward comments to avoid facing what he’s not exactly facing.

I shouldn’t feel anything.

But when I glance at Poppy still playing with her animals and then over at Rocket, who looks shell-shocked...I know .

I know this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Rocket lingers in the kitchen like it’s safer over there, behind the counter, behind the noise of pouring coffee and clinking mugs. Making coffee is something he can control.

How he reacts to a rosy-cheeked little girl, on the other hand, is something he can’t control. In his eyes, he seems to think it’s safer for him in the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns with a mug in one hand, the other shoved into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Coffee,” he says with a shrug, holding it up like a white flag. “Fresh. Strong.” He clears his throat. “Like I promised.”

Poppy looks up from her spot beside me and watches him. She’s not afraid but more curious and wide-eyed. There are questions in her eyes, in the furrow of her brow, and I swear she knows this new man standing near her is more than just a friend.

She studies him for a long time, far too aware for someone that young. She glances at his tattoos again, then at his hair, then at the faint scar near his eyebrow. The way her fingers twitch, it’s almost as if she wants to touch him.

He sits on the edge of the coffee table, careful not to get too close but close enough that he’s part of the space now.

“Do you...do you want something?” he asks, speaking softly and lifting his own coffee mug.

“Juice or snacks?” I add. She nods. “I have both in her bag.” I start to move, but Rocket’s already on his feet.

“I’ll get it.”

He moves to her bag and stares at it for a second too long before he lifts it gently and unzips the top.

I know what’s inside—a few changes of clothes, three board books, a T-shirt of her mother’s, a blanket, and pictures of her and her mom in frames wrapped protectively and stowed in the very bottom. But on top is a lunchbox that has juice and a half-open pack of fruit snacks.

He pulls the lunchbox out, his hand trembling slightly before he makes his way back and hands it to me.

Poppy tugs on my sleeve, her eyes sad despite the newfound snacks and points toward the door.

“What is it?” I ask .

Her bottom lip begins to quiver as she taps a hand over her heart—the gesture we’ve been using to say she wants her mommy.

A sullen reminder of why we’re here and the enormous tragedy this little girl has endured.

“What does that mean?” Rocket asks.

I look up and hold his gaze. “She wants her mom,” I whisper.

The air in the room shifts.

Rocket flinches like my words slapped him.

He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look at me. Just stares down at the floor, jaw flexing, and words escaping him.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I have an appointment. One I...couldn’t reschedule.”

My stomach twists.

“Of course,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“We’re writing new music. Usually, they’re all-night sessions. I probably won’t be back until late. Later. Maybe even the morning. It just—we just go until we can’t.”

“Right.” I nod. I also hate that I’m disappointed. Hate that I spent so much time making sure Poppy’s hair was perfect and that her bows were bright. That she smelled like baby lotion, and that her outfit was adorable.

I know none of that should have mattered, but I thought first impressions were huge, and I wanted hers to be incredible. I wanted him to fall in love with her at first sight, just like I did.

Guess none of that superficial preparation mattered.

His smile is tight, and his eyes dart to anywhere but me.

“There’re rooms down that hall there for you two. Big beds. Bathroom with each room.” He points off to the left of the kitchen. “Third and fourth doors on the right.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Food is here in the kitchen. Plates. Drinks. Cups. Pantry.” He points absently to each as he talks. He can’t get out of here fast enough . “Make yourself at home. To get settled, I mean.”

“We’ll be fine,” I say as graciously as I can, but I won’t deny there’s a chill to my tone.

His gaze flicks to Poppy once before he grabs his phone, wallet, and keys off the counter.

“She, uh...she should eat something more than that,” he says like I haven’t already created a routine for her, like I haven’t already built my life around taking care of kids and their needs.

“You’ll have to make me a list of food she—you—like, and I’ll get it taken care of.

Drinks. Snacks. Juice. Milk. That kind of thing. ”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have a person—she shops for me. Cooks when I want her to—I really am sorry that I have to get out of here. We’re on a schedule. A deadline and... this was unscheduled.”

“How inconvenient for you,” I say.

Clearly my sarcasm wasn’t missed by the way he stops in his tracks and meets my eyes. There’s an apology there, the ever-present dose of fear, and a little bit of anger, no doubt directed my way.

But he doesn’t say anything in response. He doesn’t argue with me. He just stands there leveling me with an indiscernible look while his daughter he’s given a whole few minutes of his time to is sniffling beside me. Focus on her, Willow. She’s sad.

I can see the muscle pulse in his jaw even from this distance, and with nothing more than a subtle shake of his head, he dumps the coffee he barely touched in the sink, raps his knuckles on the counter, and walks out of the kitchen.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And Poppy’s eyes stay locked on the direction I’m looking...maybe because I am. Or worse, maybe because, despite her age, she senses rejection.

What’s he going to do when he can’t run away or hide behind making coffee anymore? What’s going to happen when he has to face the reality that Poppy is his daughter?

I guess that’s when we’ll see the true man that Rocket Caldwell really is.