Page 22 of Hat Trick Holidate

Wynward: I’ll pay you.

Me: Not necessary. I’ll be there.

Wynward: Thank you. I’ll dropyou 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 startthe 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.

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