Page 26 of Hat Trick Holidate

The moment is full of tension. We’re searching for something in the other’s eyes. She chews on her bottom lip, drawing my attention to her mouth, and the peachy pink flesh glistens under her the bite of her teeth.

“Can you stay? I brought home dessert and honestly, I need to talk about Jolie.”

Her shoulders fall, and her arm relaxes, no longer trying to escape my hold.

“Okay. I can’t turn down dessert.” Then she mumbles, “As you can see.”

I ignore the comment because I see that she doesn’t diet, but that doesn’t mean she’s not my version of perfection. Why? I don’t know. I’ve never gone out with a curvy girl—yes, 36-24-36 but not anyone with muscles combined with a softness that I wanted to stroke all night long.

I keep my hand wrapped around her wrist as we move into the kitchen, and I gesture for her to sit. She spots the takeout bag from the Skyloft Hotel. “Is this the dessert?”

Shaking my head, I reach for a wine that pairs well with sugar. I remove the cork before pouring two glasses and hand her one. The flesh of her lips presses against the crystal, and I can’thelp but stare.

I sit down beside her, pull the cheesecake from the bag, and take out two forks from the drawer.

“Ladies first,” I say as I place the fork in her hand.

She hovers her fork above the raspberries, I assume looking for the perfect bite. A few seconds later, she pushes the fork through the creamy cake and folds her lips over the utensil. Her eyes close, and a purr comes from that gorgeous throat that I want to suck on so badly.

“That good, huh?”

“God, yes. You can find me at the Skyloft getting dessert every day.” She snickers, and it’s the cutest little sound. I would gladly make a date to take her every night. Warm, gooey feelings travel through me that I’ve never had while sharing dessert with a woman.

Shoving a large piece into my mouth, I smile. “It’s possibly the best cheesecake I’ve ever had.” Then I sip the wine, and she follows my lead. “Do you like the wine?”

“I do.” She swirls it and smells it. “It’s so smooth and caramelly.”

“Caramelly, huh. I’ve learned a new word.”

She tips her head to the left then right as she eats. “Add an l-y to the end of anything, and it makes it sound scrumptious. Speaking of delicious food, Jolie and I turned the boring chicken and steamed broccoli into a casserole masterpiece. You should be proud of her; she ate two large spoonfuls.” Emmaline takes a quick inhale and continues, “I found some apples, a sparkling silver mixer that looks like it’s never been used, and we made homemade applesauce. My brother loves my homemade applesauce to put in pouches and take on runs. I found some plastic bags, so Ifilled them up for you or Jolie to eat in the next couple of days.”

When she glances at me, she must see the smile on my face and asks, “What?”

I swear I could listen to her ramble all day long, and internally, I keep asking myself why. Why does she have this effect on me?

“Nothing.” I’m not used to people doing things for me without expecting something in return—a photo, an autograph. It’s always something. Let’s go out to the patio and talk.”

After passing through the glass French doors, I press the button on the firepit and gesture for her to sit on the couch. She tucks one leg under her butt, sitting catty cornered at the end. I walk over to the clear railing, trying to work through what I want to ask.

The skyline dazzles the black night with buildings lit up in colors across the spectrum, but the beauty of it doesn’t hold a candle to Emmaline. As I turn to face her, she’s sipping her wine, and the glow from the hot coals flicker across her features.

I blow out a breath. “Can we talk about Jolie?” My voice wavers slightly. “I have no idea how to be a father.”

She sets the wine glass on the outdoor coffee table, stands, and strides toward me. Those jeans. Damn. They hug her hips and outline the curves in her legs.

Resting her elbows on the rail, she admires the view and says, “No one does in the beginning.” Then she rests her hand on top of mine, comforting me.

“Do you think she’s scared of me? I’ve tried to be gentle,a characteristic I haven’t been since senior year of college with my girlfriend. I like body checking and crashing into the boards.” It gargles out in a half-laugh.

Twisting her body, she peers into my eyes but removes her hand. “I think she’s happy here… I don’t want to be out of line but what kind of sick, delusional woman drops her child off with someone she doesn’t know? I mean, what the fuck? It makes me sick to my stomach. What if someone dropped you off at my house and said, ‘This is where you live now. This is your new wife.’”

A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth at the thought of sharing a home and bed with Rusti, I mean Emmaline.

When she realizes the words that came from her mouth, she stutters, “Th…that was just an example… just trying to explain what she’s going through. Because no one wants to get dropped off at a stranger’s house. I work with children in the foster care system, or I did before moving to Atlanta. In my experience, Jolie knows she’s safe, but she more than likely feels abandoned by her mom and the life she knew.”

Jesus, she’s intelligent, caring, and real. There’s no facade—what you see is what you get, unlike any woman I’ve dated since becoming a professional athlete. I’m not oblivious to a real relationship, but my forever girl ended up being more into other women. That’s what propelled me to prove my manhood by sleeping with more women than I can remember. Sick—I know.

All I can do is nod.

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