Page 4 of Sweet Distraction

But the minute I ask the question, I realize there can’t be anything good about a woman I slept with years ago being brought up now. By my lawyer, no less.

It can only be one of two things: she’s accusing me of shit I didn’t do or she had a kid and is trying to say it’s mine.

Both are so far-fetched it’s ridiculous. Both something each of us in the band—and so many in this industry—have been accused of in the past for attention or hopes for monetary compensation.

And so far, when it’s come to my bandmates, every accusation arisen over the years has been discredited.

“Whatever she’s saying is bullshit. You know that. I know that.” I scrub a hand through my hair. “We’ve been there and done that with the wannabe groupies desperate for their fifteen minutes of fame. This is the last thing I need right now.”

“Ms. Whitmore died last week in a car accident.”

“Oh.” Her comment startles me. “I mean, I’m sorry for her family, but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

“Her will named you.” Her smile is tight. Unforgiving.

“Named me for?” I ask, voice breaking and concern now front and center because the last thing I’d assume is I’m about to be left a small fortune.

Sandra doesn’t respond. Instead, she opens the file in her hand and pulls out a short letter. She holds it out for me, but I don’t take it. I’m scared to.

“Why would I be in her will, Sandra?” I ask. Each second that ticks by seemingly makes this situation and unwelcome house call that much worse.

“Olivia had a daughter. Poppy Grace Whitmore is her name. She’s three years old.”

“Nope. No way.” I laugh, disbelief dripping off its edges. “There is no fucking way she’s pinning a kid on me.” I move about the room as if the movement can physically reject whatever it is that Sandra has come here to sell.

“I’m not pinning anything, Rocket. But Olivia left a letter stating you were the father as well as a copy of Poppy’s birth certificate naming you the same.”

I shake my head, and a dry laugh escapes my throat. “Right. Great. I’m the father on the birth certificate. It’s stated in a letter she wrote. But the little girl has Whitmore as a last name. Help me make that make sense because . . . it fucking doesn’t.”

“I get you’re upset. I understand why you’re bucking this,” she says evenly. “That’s why we take a paternity test, get the results in a few days, and be done with this.”

She says it so matter-of-factly—like it’s a run-of-the-mill test—but inside . . . inside I’m freaking the fuck out. “She’s not mine,” I whisper as fear creeps into my voice. “Can’t be. I always used protection.”

Sandra lifts a brow. “Always?”

“Shit.” I drag a hand through my hair. How many times do I jacket up after having a few too many? Did I do it right? Did I fuck up? Did . . . “Yes. No. Fuck this, Sandra.”

“Like I said, a paternity test will clear this all up.”

My heart pounds in my ears and drowns out reasonable thought. “Doesn’t Olivia have parents or siblings? Wouldn’t Penelope—”

“Poppy.”

“Right. Poppy. Wouldn’t Poppy be better off with someone she already knows instead of some random man she’s never met before? And then what? Me, a certifiably unqualified bastard, is supposed to raise her without any warning or history of parenting at all?”

“While I can’t disagree with you, Olivia explicitly stated in her letter that she didn’t want her parents to have custody. Reading between the lines, it seems like they had some kind of falling out and so she wanted her to be with you. Not them.”

I scrub a hand over my face and groan. The bottle of gin on the far end of the kitchen counter calls to me, begs me, to drink this all away and pretend like it’s not real.

But Sandra standing in front of me with papers in her hand, ones I’m choosing to ignore, tell me otherwise. That this is very fucking real.

“Rocket. Gavin,” she says quietly, her expression softening just enough to chisel away some of the shock. “We need the paternity test. I’ve brought a cheek swab kit to do that and get the ball rolling. Until that’s confirmed or refuted, no one is doing anything. The results will give us our next steps.”

“Next steps.” I blow out an exaggerated breath and lace my fingers behind my head. Normally, I’d laugh this shit off and not worry, but something isn’t sitting well with me. Something . . . has dread weighing heavily. “You said car accident?”

“I did. On I-405 a few nights back. Drunk driver hit her and Poppy.”

“The kid was in the car?” Jesus fucking Christ. I blink hard and look away while my gut twists simply for the fragility of life.