Chapter 8

eight

EMMALINE

Why am I staring at my phone? Shutting my eyes, I take a deep breath. I’m looking at this message like Prince Charming is on one knee, slipping a glass shoe over the arch of my foot and securing it around the ankle.

Wynward: Can you watch Jolie tonight?

Me: What time?

Wynward: Eight.

When I take a few more minutes to answer, the dots dance.

Wynward: I’ll pay you.

Me: Not necessary. I’ll be there.

Wynward: Thank you. I’ll drop you a pin.

After hitting the like emoji, I turn up the volume on the country music blaring through the home speaker, and I can’t resist swaying and sliding around my living room in a random dance.

As I wiggle into my favorite pair of jeans, a wave of self-doubt crashes over me.

He just needs a sitter.

I’m not sure if he even knows that we had a one-night stand, but I certainly don’t want him to realize it and then regret it.

Since I realized who he is, I admit to googling him. Not once has he been photographed with anyone plus size. The women on his arm have been all heights, but all have been thinner than your average woman. Some have rocked a busty chest, and some have been flatter. None have looked like me. In fact, I searched for “hockey couples” in general and couldn’t find one woman who has eaten a batch of Toll House in their lives. And let me say one thing, they’re missing out.

I should bake some cookies to take over to Jolie and her smoking-hot dad. Deciding that is a fantastic idea and will help break the ice, I make a grocery trip and then stop at the local hardware store where I meet Agner.

“How can I help ya, darlin?” he asks with a sly grin.

I love the South. The Southern drawl makes you feel welcome, and there’s always a hint of playful flirting. Agner is approaching his eighties, if not already there. Gray tight curls cover his head, his chocolate eyes sparkle, and I have the distinct impression that in his day, he could charm the pants off a girl with those eyes and that smile.

“I’m looking for a new water faucet and handles. ”

“Follow me.”

We walk around the lighting department, and I admire some brass hanging lights. It’s not in the budget right now, so Agner and I move to the bathroom section, and I don’t know how I’ll choose. There are an infinite number of combinations between the styles and the colors—antique bronze, brass, chrome, rose gold, and black.

Overwhelmed, I ask. “What’s the most popular?”

Shoving his hands deep into his dark-khaki work pants, he chuckles. “You don’t strike me as a woman who follows the crowd.”

I thought about changing all the fixtures in the house from brass to black, but it seems irresponsible to spend one thousand dollars on something that isn’t broken. However, the bathroom knobs are hanging on by a metal thread. Picking up a set of plain brass. “This will do.”

He chuckles again. “Do you need help installing the fixtures?”

“Are you trying to get me to invite you over, Agner?”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.” He grins, showcasing his pearly white dentures. “You should be used to men flirting with you.”

“Not really,” I say, following him to the register.

He bags my purchase, swipes my credit card, and hands me my receipt. “Now, if you need anything, call the store and ask for me. I’ll find someone to help you install it.”

“Thanks, but I can do it.”

After a million tasks, I finally make it to Admire Academy and prepare for the after-school program. When the kids file in, I notice a few children who weren’t here on Monday or Tuesday. I break them into teams, and we start the scavenger hunt. Each group has a special object to find.

I introduce myself to the new kids, and one of the little boys looks up at me and says, “Is Jolie coming?”

It hits me that this is one of Reed Cross’ children, so I search through names on my fancy clipboard that I decoupaged with patterned paper in the school colors and tied various colored ribbons to the clip.

“Are you Cannon Cross?”

“That’s me. Best six-year-old basketball player in the city,” he says with the confidence of Michael Jordan.

“Cannon, I have a secret. My brother is on the Jets with your dad.” I bend down in front of him.

“That’s lit. Wait, do you know my mom? I haven’t seen you at the games.” Cannon’s skin wrinkles on his forehead, and he rubs his fingers through his hair. He’s so stinkin’ cute—a carbon copy of Reed.

I stand up. “I just moved here a couple of weeks ago, but maybe you can introduce me to her at a game.”

“Okay. Is Jolie here? My mom said she might come here to school.”

“She’s not here. Her dad is still deciding on schools.”

With that, a friend yells his name at the end of the court where I have Around the World set up. And Cannon proves that he may be the best six-year-old basketball player in Atlanta. He dribbles like a miniature Steph Curry and shoots with every ounce of strength and finesse, sinking the ball into the basket.

When the after-school program comes to an end, a parent catches me asking if I could spend some one-on-one time with their son. The parents are executives at a cable news company headquartered in Atlanta. She tells me that he’s withdrawn at home and sometimes refuses to eat.

I promise to make a connection with their son and hopefully have some answers for what they can do.

Unfortunately, while I was talking to her, Cannon was picked up, and I didn’t get to meet his mom.

Sucking in the crisp, cool air, I exhale slowly. It’s only a babysitting gig. Yeah, right. It’s a babysitting gig with the guy who ruined me for every other man who has come since. Which hasn’t been many, but every time I got to the point with a man to have sex, I knew before it began that it would be subpar to Bryce Wynward.

I walk into the high rise and give the doorman my name. “Emmaline Rustavelli.”

“Good. Good, Mr. Wynward is expecting you.” The potbellied man reminds me of Santa Claus without the beard. He waves his card in front of the elevator that says penthouse. When he gets in, he inserts a key, pushes the button, and says, “It will only stop at the penthouse. The doors open up into his house. Have a good time.” He winks and suddenly, I’m staring at the long hallway of Bryce Wynward’s house.

Do I walk down the hall? That seems creepy. I wouldn’t like someone walking in on me.

“Please, Jolie, eat. Your sitter is at the door.”

I follow the voice that lingers through the air. “Hello? I’m here. Not a stalker or…” That’s when I see him. Almost al l of him. He’s wearing shorts, and the rest is all glistening skin. My breath catches. Lord.

“Hey, thanks for coming.”

Words aren’t formulating in my head. He’s freaking gorgeous. All I do is smile.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks.

“I brought ingredients to make cookies. Sorry, I was going to bake them before I came, but I didn’t have time. I had to buy bathroom fixtures, do some unpacking, and work.” I force myself to look in the bag so that I can catch my breath and stop rambling. “Hi, Jolie.”

His adorable daughter gives me a scant smile.

Bryce gestures with his hand for me to follow him into a grand living room fit for a king, not necessarily a child. It seems cold and impersonal. Men think all they need is stainless steel and glass.

“Jolie won’t eat, and I don’t know what to do.” He runs his fingers through his thick, blond hair, then he leans against the archway and whispers, “And she still hasn’t said a word to me. She screamed, cried, and threw a fit, but no actual words.”

His expression falls, and I’m seeing the soft side of star center. One who wants this little girl to love him.

“I’ll see what I can do. You better get dressed, or you’ll be late for your date,” I say with a hint of playfulness.

With an ever-so-slight uptick of his lips, he says, “It’s a charity event that one of my brand partners is putting on. I wouldn’t go, but it’s raising money for children with autism.”

Jesus, he’s the whole package. Sure, he’s a manwhore, but who the hell cares? Just give me more of it. No. Shake that thought. You’re Emmaline, not Rusti. But damn, Rusti was fun that one weekend.

“That’s a good cause. Get ready, and I’ll see what Jolie wants to do.”

We step into the kitchen to find Jolie sitting at the table with white rice, a baked chicken breast, and steamed broccoli. No wonder she won’t eat. It’s flavorless. I turn my back to Jolie and ask Bryce, “Is it okay if I add a few ingredients to this meal and maybe she’ll eat it.”

“Her mom told me she loves baked chicken and broccoli.”

If I were a mom, I would have my kid creating food instead of being served. “Well, her mom lied,” I chuckle. “Very few kids eat broccoli at five years old. It’s a texture thing.”

He shrugs as he turns, leaving me alone with Jolie, but he calls over his shoulder, “Do whatever you want. It can’t hurt.”

“Jolie, I’m going to hang out with you tonight while your dad is working. Have you ever heard of re-imagining?”

She shakes her head no.

“Well, it’s what you do when you take the same items but use them differently. Have you ever cooked?”

Again, she moves her head from left to right. At this age, my mom had me standing on chairs, helping her cook everything. I guess that’s where my love of food came from—my mom.

I always loved how she would say, “Emmaline made the sauce. Or Emmaline whipped up the frosting to perfection.”

I pick up Jolie’s plate, set it on the counter, and a relieved expression washes over her face, thinking she doesn’t have to eat it. “Come on.” I grab her and sit her on the island. Then I scour the kitchen for a bowl, a baking dish, soup, and cheese.

“Okay, the first thing we’re going to do is cut the chicken. I know you’re not a baby, but have you used a knife?”

No.

Standing behind her, I hold her hands with a fork and knife and show her how to cut the chicken. She saws at it like she’s cutting through steel but eventually, the piece breaks off. “Doing good. Can you cut a few more slices?”

Yes, she nods.

When she’s finished, I ask if she likes cheese, and she rewards me with a huge grin.

“Now comes the fun part. Are you ready? I’m going to hold the bowl, and you’re going to throw in one piece of broccoli, one piece of chicken, and I’ll put in a spoon of rice. We’ll do it over and over again until we have none left.”

Confused, her eyebrows pinch together. Yep, she’s realizing she still has to eat the chicken and broccoli.

“Ready, go.”

I move the bowl in different spots on the island like she has to make a basket. It doesn’t take long for her to be all smiles. Then we put the mixture into a casserole dish, and she layers the cheese on top.

Her dad clears his throat, just as Jolie crunches up the crackers on the top. I don’t know how long he has been standing there. His kitchen is a mess, for the first time since he moved in.

Damn, he’s fiiine. The tailored, light-blue dress shirt fits perfectly over his torso, stretching in all the right spots as he moves. I cannot wait for him to turn around and leave so I can see his ass.

As if he can read my mind, he states, “I need to go.”

“Okay, we’re just re-imagining dinner. Any instructions?”

“I try to have her in bed by nine, but we’re close to that already.”

I put the casserole into the oven and set the timer. “Jolie, are you ready to play a game? If so, give your dad a hug goodbye, and we’re going to play the game where you put on as many clothes and accessories on me in five minutes. When we’re done, I’ll let you use my phone to take a photo and send to your dad.”

She reluctantly stands in front of the enormous man in front of her. Bryce wraps her into his arms, but Jolie doesn’t reciprocate the hug—just hangs her arms over him without squeezing. He puts her down, and she follows my instructions.

“Raise a lot of money tonight. And if you’re going to be extra late, can you text me?”

“I won’t be.” Our eyes collide, and I can’t force them to look anywhere but at him. I wonder if he knows who I am. “Call me if… you need me to come home.”

After I put her to bed, it’s a distinct possibility.