Page 47 of How to Catch a Rockstar

She elbows me. “Where’s my surprise?”

Ah yes. The surprise. I motion down the stairs.

Once we’re in the foyer, I place her boots near her feet. “Put those on.”

“Why? Are you kicking me out in the dead of night? Are you hoping none of your bandmates will notice? Did you steal my phone to stop me from calling for help?”

I begin to roll my eyes but stop when I realize she isn’t joking. She seriously thinks I’d kick her out of the house. Damn it. I’m not a complete asshole.

I cradle her face with my hands. “I’m not kicking you out, Aurora. I may not be happy you’re pregnant. I may not know what I’m going to do about this child. But I’m not kicking you out.”

She searches my face for clues I’m lying. I drop my guard and let her see everything. My conflict about the baby. My desire to have her in my arms. My fear I can’t be the man she wants. She gasps and I slam my guard back up.

I kiss her nose. “You’re safe with me.”

She blows out a breath. “Okay. I’m trusting you here.”

My heart pounds in my chest. She trusts me. Me. The man who doesn’t deserve one ounce of her trust. Warmth spreads through my body and a smile spreads across my face.

“Now. What is this surprise?”

There’s my feisty girl.

I wrap a blanket around her shoulders and nudge her toward the door. She appears confused but she doesn’t fight me. I open the door and she gasps.

“I know you’ve seen snow before. I’ll never forget the time we got snowed in and ended up spending the night on the floor of the airport in Detroit.”

She cringes. “I got gum in my hair.”

“But the first snowfall of the season is special.”

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs as she steps off the porch into the front yard.

She throws her arms out and twirls around as she giggles. It’s a beautiful sight to see. A sight I’d love to see every year with each first snowfall of the winter season. I shove those thoughts away.

Now is not the time to contemplate what I will never have. Now is the time to live in the moment. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s living in the moment.

I jump down the porch into the front yard.

“Can you catch a snowflake on your tongue?” I don’t wait for her to answer before tilting my head back and sticking out my tongue. “There. Got one.”

“You have the maturity of a five-year-old.”

I bow. “Thank you. Last week you said I was four. I’m maturing.”

“As much as a boy stuck in a man’s body can mature.”

I wiggle my hips. “But what a body it is.”

She shoves me. “Man child.”

“Can a man child do this?” I ask before doing a cartwheel.

She holds up six fingers. “Six out of ten.”

“Six? I can do better.”

This time I do a roundoff. When I land on both feet, I raise my hands in the air before bowing.

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