Chapter 3

"I 'm going to be babysitting a three-year-old girl. Actually, some days and weeks, I'll probably be living with the child for part of the time. I'll write when I can, but my main priority for the next six weeks will be tending to her." Before I can stop myself, I force the words from my lips, knowing it's not what any author's publicist wants to hear. "My hope is that this break will give me a chance to get my head on straight. To really … figure my shit out."

There's a pause. And after being with Holly for so long, I know a pause is never good. A pause means she's processing what the hell I said. And not in a good way.

"I don't understand. You've had months and months to get your head on straight. And to … figure your crap out," she finally says, her tone clearly less than impressed. "And now, instead of writing—or even trying to write—you're going to be … babysitting? A child. A three-year-old child."

I frown because when she says it like that, yeah … it sounds bad.

"Yes, well, I just thought it'd be good for me to have a change of scenery, is all," I answer, holding my phone between my shoulder and ear as I pull on my pants. "I mean, sitting in front of the computer for hours each day or watching romance movies, trying to get inspired, clearly isn't cutting it."

Her response comes out instantly this time. "Hey, you know what? I just heard about a writing retreat back in your old stomping grounds, Boston. It's in a few weeks. Let's try that first." I hear her suddenly hitting keys on her keyboard. "Shooting them an email now to see if we can get you in."

"What? No. Don't do that." I panic. "Holly, I've been to three writing retreats this year. Three. They didn't help then. Why would they now?"

"Well, I think they'd help more than nannying a child," she mutters, the frustration in her tone evident. "Look, kid, you know I love you. We've worked together for a long, long time now. And I have always—and will always have—your best interest at heart in this industry. But you need to shit or get off the pot. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but you are rapidly losing readers. They can only fawn over a series that's years old for so long before they move on to someone else."

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything she's saying, I'm already aware of. I adore my readers, and the last thing I ever want to do is let them down, but I just … can't help it right now.

"I know. I know. Trust me, I get that," I tell her genuinely because I do.

The number of tags I get on social media is nothing compared to what they used to be. I would get overwhelmed just by logging in to Instagram because the number of posts and stories I was tagged in and messages about my books were insane. Now, I might get one a day. And that's if I'm lucky.

My readers are moving on. And I can't blame them because I'm not holding up my end of the deal as an author. The biggest thing that hurts about that is, I love my readers. So many of them have been with me since the very beginning. They believed in me before the rest of the book community even knew who I was. And I still love writing. I want to write. But I just can't. And as a kid who wrote pages and pages when answering a question all through my school years, it's crippling.

"You could say I love you too , you know?" she says, breaking my train of thought. "I mean, just saying . It is the polite thing to do."

"You know I love you, Holly. These past few years, I wouldn't have even survived without you. Not just financially because you've kept my sales afloat, but also emotionally. I know you've tried to be gentle, and I appreciate that so much because, sincerely, that's what I've needed ever since …" I stop, not wanting to finish my sentence. "I promise, if I'm still struggling in six weeks, we'll come up with a new plan."

"One that doesn't involve you taking care of a child, you mean?"

"I guess." I laugh lightly. "I just need to clear my head. And who knows? I bet after six weeks of caring for a child, I'll be begging for my office space and itching to write, just to get away from her."

"Fine," she mutters through a sigh. "Fine, fine, fine. But I'm curious, why are the parents so busy that they need a nanny to live with them?"

I debate on not telling her the truth because Holly is an extreme lover of all sports—hockey, football, basketball, and even baseball. She also lives in New Hampshire and is a fan of the Sharks. I'll attend a game every now and then as a social thing—at least, I used to. But I don't actually know what's going on in front of me, and I hardly know any players' names or what position they play.

Our friendship gets in the way, and I can't stop myself from blabbing to her, "So, don't freak out. But do you know Logan Sterns?"

"Ummm … is that even a question? Who doesn't know that hot-as-hell hockey player? Right winger for the New England Bay Sharks. Single daddy. He was on the cover of a magazine last year in his underwear, and I almost framed it just so I could lick the picture. I keep it in my hottest athlete pile beside my bed." She giggles. "So, yes, I'm familiar with who he is. Doesn't he have a—wait a second. Are you—are you nannying for—" With every word she says, her voice rises with excitement until she's almost squealing.

"I told you not to freak out," I cut her off. "You're freaking out."

"Okay, word to the wise: next time you tell your publicist you're going to stop writing to babysit some random kid, lead with the fact that it's Logan fucking Sterns kid!" I can hear her pacing and imagine her marching around in her office. "Forget all I said. By all means, yes! Go for it."

"I don't get why me telling you it's Logan Sterns changed anything," I say, confused. "Like … why does it matter who it is?"

"Hockey isn't anything we've tapped into yet. But let me tell you, hockey is hot right now. No, hockey is on fire," she rattles off, but I don't follow. "This can give you inspiration for your next book. Wait, next series!" There's a short pause, like she's coming up with some grand plan. "A hockey series."

"I don't … wait. How did you get all of that just from hearing I'm going to be nannying for Logan Sterns's kid?"

"Because that's how my brain works, babe!" She sounds much happier now, so I don't have the heart to tell her that she's undeniably insane. "This will give me so much more to work with."

"Wait!" I bark into the phone. "No. Do not make anything. Do not tease anything to the readers. And for the love of God. Do. Not. Open a sign-up sheet for a series that likely isn't ever going to happen!"

"Fine," she huffs. "But when we talk next, if you're feeling inspired, will you be straight with me?"

"Yes," I answer, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I gotta go. I'm due at Logan's house for training in twenty minutes."

"He can train you by taking his clothes—"

"Goodbye, Holly!" rushes from my lips seconds before I end the call and sit down on my bed.

"Hockey series?" I mutter to myself, shaking my head. "That would be … a terrible idea."

I mean, I don't even know if I find hockey players hot. And even if I did, staying in a professional hockey player's house while plotting a book featuring a hockey player seems … gee, I don't know … weird? And creepy.

Slowly standing, I slide on my trusty Birkenstocks, grab my crossbody bag, and head for the door. After all, I have babysitting training to do.

And, yeah … maybe it doesn't hurt that the child's dad is really, really easy on the eyes.

After a few hours of a CPR and babysitting-safety crash course, the middle-aged woman named Shannon packs her things up and gives me a smile. "Do you have any questions for me before I take off?"

I think on it for a second. Even though I just took the course, I still feel like I know nothing. Yet I can't think of anything to ask. "I guess not," I say, feeling unsure.

She chuckles lightly. "I know it seems like a lot of information, and you might feel like you're in over your head, but if—God forbid—you ever need to use any of the skills we just went over, you'll be ready. Trust me on that."

"Thanks," I say politely. "I do feel much more … informed now. And prepared. But there's a lot to it."

"There sure is. But if you ever need a refresher or think of any questions, don't hesitate to call." She smiles and holds her hand out, passing me a business card. "Have a nice afternoon, ladies."

Once she's gone, Maddie stands. "I just need to use the bathroom super quick; I've been holding it after chugging my huge-ass water when I first got here, and I'm close to peeing my pants. After that, we'll go over everything else, which shouldn't take more than half an hour."

"Sounds good," I say just before she heads down the hall, disappears into the bathroom, and closes the door.

When I arrived at Logan's house a few hours ago, Maddie and Shannon were waiting for me. Apparently, Logan and Amelia had gone out for the day, but not before he secured someone to come in and get me CPR-trained before I start nannying for Amelia tomorrow.

I guess when you're a famous athlete, you can set up a private CPR class in your home the night before, and it's no big deal. Who knew?

A few minutes later, she walks out of the bathroom and heads toward the kitchen. Grabbing a binder, she holds it up. "This, my friend, has everything you need to know about our sweet Amy. And the house too. Even different attractions she likes around the area." She plops down on the couch next to me and opens it. "We'll go through it together, but I'll leave it here. That way, you always have it."

"You made this?" I whisper, reaching out and touching the paper. "It must have taken you hours."

"Logan and I both add to it constantly. And sometimes take things out too. She loved yogurt, like, a month ago, and now, she thinks it's ‘duck-tank.'"

When I glance at her, clearly confused, she laughs. "Amy can't pronounce disgusting, so she says duck-tank instead. It's become sort of an inside joke because now, even I say it."

"Duck-tank means no good." I nod, grinning. "Noted."

My heart does some sort of fluttery thing when I read the header on the next page out loud, " Amelia's things to bring to hockey games ." I glance down at all the things listed below. Her blankie, her favorite stuffed Highland cow, crayons and plain paper, and her tablet with Blippi and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse downloaded onto it.

"When possible, Logan loves having her in the stands, but he wants it to be fun for her." Maddie's eyes gloss over. "I promise you, he might seem like a knucklehead, but you will never find a better dad than Logan Sterns. He loves her more than anything."

"He seems like a great father," I say, a small smile teasing my lips. "And he does it all alone?" I pause, instantly feeling bad. "Well, you know what I mean. Obviously, he's had you. But—"

"It's okay, girl." She chuckles. "I know what you meant. And, yeah, he does. Between hockey and raising her, he really doesn't take any time for himself. I'm going to miss them so much." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Something in my eye. I'm not crying. Again ."

I'm not always the one who knows the right thing to say when someone is struggling. But for whatever reason, I pat her hand. "I promise I'll take good care of her. I might be new to this whole kid thing, but I can tell she's special. And I know she means a lot to you."

"Thank you," she whispers. "She does."

I don't know what comes over me, but I ask, "Are you and he, like … romantic at all?" I'm embarrassed as soon as the words leave my lips, and I cringe, wishing I could reverse time and take them back. "I'm so sorry. That is none of my business. I just mean, that would make this leaving thing even harder, is all."

She barks out a loud laugh, and any sadness she felt quickly disappears from her face. "Jesus, no." She shakes her head. " Hell no." She continues laughing for a moment, wiping her eyes. "I love Logan, but not like that. I love him as a friend. Or even family."

"I see," I say, nodding my head, thankful she wasn't offended by my intrusive, awkward question because she very well could have been.

"Now, let's get through the rest of this before they get back. Yeah?" she says before flipping the page. "Because once they are home, Amy is probably going to force us to play Highland cows or house with her."

Grinning, I look down at the page and nod. "Yes. I'd say we'd better."

I'm far from an expert on children, and I certainly have a lot to get to know about Amelia. But today, I learned so much, and I'm already feeling better about the next six weeks. Even if I'm still completely out of my comfort zone, I think this really might be a good thing for me.

And I hope it'll be a good thing for the future of my writing career.